We spoke of endlessness once. I had forgotten all about it until I missed it terribly tonight. To be honest, at first, I didn't quite understand what I was missing. I was nostalgic. I wanted to write and wished I had someone to write to. And that's when I realized what I miss. I miss having someone to write to.
I miss seeing a familiar name in my inbox, amidst the noise of spam, promotional emails, reminders, bills and discounts. The comfort of picking up where we left off - a few hours or a few days later. The sweet in-between forest of waiting, lush with anticipation. What I wouldn't do, to have someone to write to, someone who wrote to me. The simple act of writing to someone, who I know will be smiling at my words and pondering over my questions, is humbling in a way that life just cannot replicate. To be someone's literary escape and solace...is there anything more romantic? No, 'romantic' is probably definitely not the right word for that privilege.
My very own, human 'dear-diary', yes, that's what I miss. Not someone to talk to, but simply having someone to send a box of my entangled inner monologues to, replete with longing and belonging. To have someone to witness my life, the way I experience it, not the way they perceive it, is surreal and under-rated at best. How does one bring up one's love for bread, for instance, in a conversation and talk about it for minutes without being considered just a little odd? But in an email, I can describe how a piece of sourdough bread is as good as cake for me and then write about the song that reminds me of that emotion.
The stream of consciousness is unfettered when we write; unleased like a dog in a green field. To hear the silent sound of words in your mind - the voice, as you imagine it to be, of the person writing to you. Their characteristic tone and pitch. Such beauty in the written word. Someone to write to; is one such kind of love.
