What would this world without letters? They have always existed and in the lap of its lines have hosted the accumulation of despavoridas or placid, words that need to translate on paper putting name on feelings. There are extensive, succinct, minimum, maximum. Of welcomes, farewells. Public, private. Writers famous, apprentices, crazy, or in love, readers, listeners but never indifferent. Loves, heartbreaks, forgetfulness, memories, penalties, glory, count of debts, past, present nostalgia, regrets.
They have saved estampillados secrets. They have recommended delicacies and recipes for all kinds of penalties and mistakes. The years were long pants and were received from centuries and them remain, although accompanied by flowers on anniversaries, birthdays and fiestas de gala, they rub shoulders with the modern mail when they exploit emotions. The modern Dulcineas of jeans, the current Romeos who answer fast but skimpy skirts. The rush of love at first sight in March. The speed of the desire to be plasma in the e-mail. Relapse of a fuming lover who does not forget that you should forget it. Of the unrequited lover.
Schoolgirls with their popular and favourite artists fan club. All forms of writing, until the old Telegraph, make a reverence and a tribute to its predecessor printed. Who does not remember the of color paper punishment of love, with sealing stamps when they dress in missives important, when the heart overflows of passion that there is no quiet in the chest. The mother who learns the mysteries and secrets of Internet because the son or daughter have immigrated. They have left the nest. And still feels the need to tell him by some means, wrap up that’s cold. Without being completely safe, if there where is makes cold or not, but affection manifests itself in that recommendation that it becomes urgent to do. The friend who says beware. He sometimes expresses to the relatives accompanying the feeling when the loved one is gone. Sometimes reference a shattered heart. Others expected an an uproar the arrival of that kindred spirit. A. times is the des drowning of impossible love. Flavor to tango of a dream that is never reached. Of forgetfulness by dint of distances that masked eyes that do not see, heart that doesn’t feel. Sometimes it is solemn witness of voluntary or involuntary exiles. Uprooted hearts. Counts that were once hauntingly happy moments and memories that are trapped in letters into syllables so you win the battle to oblivion. Some QUIXOTES who wonder would this world if you lost the old habit that already dressed in crinoline leaving a note under her pillow and the recipient to discover it before you go to dream, and still let it pass above the bed newly outstretched, as sign of renewed vows of lovea request for reconciliation, an I love you, a te amo, overlap that we will repeat the ear of who sleeps beside us. Sometimes it is the way of saying that the voice is mutes. Other way of translating what it says the look. But it is always a gesture. And who is not saved in boxes decorated letters. Who can not escape a sigh with those messages of gridded love on the leg of the pigeon. Or the letter thrown into the waters of the sea into a bottle. Some are brand-new, paper smooth and new, others yellowed already worn by time. But who does not save a letter among his memories? And who could imagine a world without letters even though they are in these times who run?