When I set up your email account on Yahoo years ago, the first thing you wrote me humbled me to the core. You said something to the effect that it was a place you could call your own. Not a family box, not a shared place, but one where you could come and go and your words would be for me and no one else but me.
You fairly blossomed there, always finding a way to sneak off and write a line, to jot down a feeling or a memory or share a story about your life, your family, your times. There were many days where I felt that I was part of your ongoing story, and while, on the most part, and to most people, I was an invisible presence, I was still there with you, side by side on your many adventures. It was an almost daily occurance, that quick message or more in my email box. In was never about quantity, it was all about quality, the shared moment, the sweet and oh so normal raft of words. As you put to me as the months unfolded, I made the words, you made the time and for a long while that worked.
Then it all came down upon your head. Your computer time became suspect, your history was opened and followed and finally, your email box discovered, opened by password or by mistake.
So, I was left without a correspondent. I wrote you and for awhile dodged your sensor, finally, though, he demanded complete and total access to all your email accounts. Our long run ended ignobly.
I have to wonder if writing was our primary pleasure port? Those words meant a lot of things to us. Truly, our words were inflammatory, they were tools to help incite riot, promote unrest. They brought down the house on your end of town, helped to bring down my marriage on mine. Indeed, not only did they turn my marital world upside down but they also helped push me out of a job. What a thing our words became, amazing how they still continue to piss off folks who really don't have a vested interest in where our hearts dwelled or where they have flown to since.
So, you left a void impossible to fill. I've sought out other writers out of loneliness and boredom, not so much to replace you but to keep that skill sharp. One time I found a flagrantly impetious writer on the other side of the mountains, much too keen for sharing her words and more. She went much too far and left her world behind because of what she gleaned from our exchanges. There were never hard promises given but she flew high on the wings of desire, left all she knew because she became drunk, ney, unstable, on the heady drafts of our words. She crashed and burned hard. I will always feel bad about that.
You fairly blossomed there, always finding a way to sneak off and write a line, to jot down a feeling or a memory or share a story about your life, your family, your times. There were many days where I felt that I was part of your ongoing story, and while, on the most part, and to most people, I was an invisible presence, I was still there with you, side by side on your many adventures. It was an almost daily occurance, that quick message or more in my email box. In was never about quantity, it was all about quality, the shared moment, the sweet and oh so normal raft of words. As you put to me as the months unfolded, I made the words, you made the time and for a long while that worked.
Then it all came down upon your head. Your computer time became suspect, your history was opened and followed and finally, your email box discovered, opened by password or by mistake.
So, I was left without a correspondent. I wrote you and for awhile dodged your sensor, finally, though, he demanded complete and total access to all your email accounts. Our long run ended ignobly.
I have to wonder if writing was our primary pleasure port? Those words meant a lot of things to us. Truly, our words were inflammatory, they were tools to help incite riot, promote unrest. They brought down the house on your end of town, helped to bring down my marriage on mine. Indeed, not only did they turn my marital world upside down but they also helped push me out of a job. What a thing our words became, amazing how they still continue to piss off folks who really don't have a vested interest in where our hearts dwelled or where they have flown to since.
So, you left a void impossible to fill. I've sought out other writers out of loneliness and boredom, not so much to replace you but to keep that skill sharp. One time I found a flagrantly impetious writer on the other side of the mountains, much too keen for sharing her words and more. She went much too far and left her world behind because of what she gleaned from our exchanges. There were never hard promises given but she flew high on the wings of desire, left all she knew because she became drunk, ney, unstable, on the heady drafts of our words. She crashed and burned hard. I will always feel bad about that.
There have been all too many since then that imagine that they are writers or think that they understand the power of the pen and the keyboard. All to many have flailed about in their attempts to convince me or have tossed their hearts under the bus much too soon, their sneakers tripped up in the landmine fields of love, lust and impossibility. I stumbled into the Land of POF awhile back. All too many possible correspondents there to choose from, all too many who start up, tease me with their words, find that I am not their Prince Charming or Daddy Warbucks and then go away, allowing themselves a few fantasy moments with me and then, when the reality check arrives, back up and slither away.
I am weary of the game. Where are the real writers? Where is the true heart? All I want is to find a letter in my mailbox, one that is written with a sense of purpose, something will will inflame me, a letter that will show me that the writer is happy to share not only share bit of her day but also a bit of that long lost heart I crave as well. But I suppose you can't hit the same spot twice. To hit it once with you was enough. But continue to write I will, even if the end result is a sort of love letter to you by proxy.
Your WHMB
I am weary of the game. Where are the real writers? Where is the true heart? All I want is to find a letter in my mailbox, one that is written with a sense of purpose, something will will inflame me, a letter that will show me that the writer is happy to share not only share bit of her day but also a bit of that long lost heart I crave as well. But I suppose you can't hit the same spot twice. To hit it once with you was enough. But continue to write I will, even if the end result is a sort of love letter to you by proxy.
Your WHMB
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