A tale of a lost letter

 I am sure you remember me, the rickety old inland letter. Scratch your memory stamp hard. You can’t be that old to have forgotten me. Sure, you neither gave me a fond farewell nor bothered to wave an arm! But I am part of your indelible memory of growing up. I served my purpose. I created memories. I delivered. It defies logic that you still relegated me to the ragtag of history. I regret this museumification. I understand that the rickety old donkey was condemned to history. I can fathom the departure of the good old pigeon. But I thought I was the message, not the medium.

I could hard code love. When it comes from a pen to a paper, it conveyed a mood; it conveyed emotion; when you rejected my voice, you had to tear me apart, not delete me. That was a meaning in itself. I sure took time to reach, but I did. I sure was not a browse away, but I brought you the first college admission news. Boy, when I did, I came in style. Do you remember the anticipation while you cut me open with that broken pencil? You couldn’t share me Instagram-ly, nor could you Pinterest me down. I didn’t go viral either, and thank god for that!


I am not that pompous to be oblivious of my fault lines. I was slow, I could get smudged, I often lost my way. I exposed your botched handwriting. I ostensibly conveyed your insincerity too. 


My e-brethren does a terrific job. I can’t match his speed or spontaneity, but I compensated for that through my sagacity and sincerity. You thought twice before vomiting your thoughts on me. It used to be a virtue once upon a time. 

I had my time in the sun. I had my moments. I won’t complain. Tweet your way to glory. My only sage advice is that speed is not a virtue; your thought is.


So long then.


Writefully and indelibly yours

The Inland letter

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