Somebody once told me to never underestimate the power of a well written letter. Or maybe I read that in a book some time ago... or perhaps those were just some lines spoken in a film I saw once; I can't remember. But someone, fictional or not, once said to never underestimate the power of a well written letter. And they were right. I find myself tonight, like I have on so many similar evenings, looking through a box full of letters. These are letters that someone, in a seemingly past life, once wrote to me. They are, in fact, love letters. I have a box full of love letters. And every evening like this begins and ends the same. I fall, or rather dive, head first into this 'other world,' a universe seemingly all its own, shaped by memory, colored in a past, and punctuated with unwavering, all consuming, unconditionally beautiful love. For those few hours I am reminded of what appears to have been, as I said before, another life... another time, but not so totally another me. I am reminded that this hopeless romantic should be rather hopeful, as once upon a time true love existed, and will undoubtedly exist again. (please forgive the sap...I'm having a moment)
I've been leafing through these old pages, somewhat crinkled and worn, with an all too familiar handwriting, thinking that the love letters of great men I always admired and felt drawn to, actually hold no candle to the ones in my possession. These letters embrace the kind of romanticism I've bought into my entire life. I always imagined that Austen and Bronte, even Cummings wrote of love in more brilliant ways than anyone I knew ever could but yet, here it is... the proof. Proof that the love I thought I had only conjured up in some dreamlike whimsical alternate reality actually exists... or existed. Someone I knew years ago had the incredible capacity not only for love, but for putting pen to paper and shaping the English language so masterfully and tenderly that even now, years later, I am brought to tears by the notions of romance, admiration, appreciation, and love. It is as if these letters are not even addressed to me, but I am glimpsing into the precious correspondence of a man to his beloved- neither of whom I ever knew. As if these letters could have in fact lived in the time of Austen or Bronte... what a thought.
And I got to thinking about the power of words- which I have firmly put to question especially over the past year. Have words lost their power? Or have we lost our ability to coherently express all that we think and feel? I read these words and am reminded of a love so pure and innocent and unconditional... despite frustration and mess and complication. I read words like this, and find they're far better than anything Beethoven or Lord Byron wrote to their beloveds... because someone, somewhere, years ago, wrote them to me:
My life would be a far cry from what it is now if you were not with me now, if you'd not been there for me then, if you'd not been around for all this time. I thank you, from the bottom of all that is good within me, from the bottom of my cold heart, from the very center of everything I've ever had, for everything you've given me, for all the opportunities and chances and graces and forgiveness and love and hands to hold and shoulders to lay my head on and cheeks to touch and lips to kiss and eyes to see you seeing me, too. I can't imagine ever saying this to anyone else, ever feeling this about anyone else, ever giving this much to anything else. You are the reason I can do what I do, and all before this was fallacy.
..........So here's to hoping that even more years from now I'll be leafing through yet another box full of letters, once again reminding myself that Mr. Darcy does in fact exist in this reality, that he has the capacity for love, and that I am, in fact, lovable. Here's to becoming a more hopeful romantic. Here's to unconditional love, ridiculous romance, and the power of a well written letter.
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