~My Reflections On The Lost Art of Letter-writing ~
The violet-blue ink will immortalise us.
Inside the encasing of toughened glass, a union of higher order will take place. The warm museum bulb will slowly melt the love in the round formations of your handwriting…and thaw the curled-up longing in the angular scribble of mine. The poems and the prose of our letters will flow together in a violet river of love – reaching infinite hearts, at numerous museums, for countless moons.
Artists, philosophers and writers of posterity will marvel at the love-carrying capacity of the thin, withering paper. Preserved in them will be…the enormity and eternity of love, and also the entire restlessness and restfulness of it. The tremblings of the heart, and also the tenacity of the soul. The sweet surrenders, and also the clasping-claiming of one another. And countless other germinations, when one soul multiplied into two…and two became one…growing into each other, growing with each other…growing from each other.
Chronicling each spring of new understandings and autumn of abandoned knowings, these sacred ledgers of our life will traverse the world. Hundreds of years from now, in the best care of one museum – to another. In Le Louvre Paris one day, close to the timeless fragrances of Mona Lisa’s oils – about to fly to London and to The Prado in Spain next.
The vintage-violet medium will immortalise our love. A union of higher order will take place...a 'continuity of our conscious-togetherness*’ ...
~My Reflections On The Lost Art of Letter-writing ~
*continuity of our conscious-togetherness - phrase adopted from Mary Haskell (in a letter to Khalil Gibran)