Swirled ink smudged across a crumpled page, folded with love and the tear of a recent ache. Scribbled out misspellings, sentences with no end. Heartfelt, each letter has the personality of the creator.
To frame, to hold, forever to keep, a message with no expiration date.
I would rather have a note, laced with care, than anything purchased.
I would rather have your letter, for loving someone is never a waste.
It’s a gift no money could ever buy, finding someone who could take two simple things and turn them into something that lasts a lifetime. Simple sentences, made-up words, it’s the love or time and commitment that matters the most. The time poured into every sentence, hand-constructed for only one set of eyes to see, is an honor to know how much I might mean.
I have kept every single one of them, all piled in a jar, where the seal is not locked, so at any moment I can relive what I felt the day I first read them. It was late at night when I cracked open the jar at first, and with a tear slipping down my cheek, I realized that I never wanted anything more than someone to write a note to me. I don’t care how little meaning the words may possess; it is something about handwritten notes that brings the message to life.
Messages from a pen; a gift I will always want to receive.
The notes are a time capsule of the instant they were written, as if folded away were the small moments that seem to be forgotten, and the feeling that seasons have changed. As I have gotten older, the less meaningful gifts of quantity seem—countless transactions and money spent on gifts. I want a paper full of memories, of love, of the summer days, autumn nights. I seek the youth that every handwritten note holds, the words begging to never be forgotten.
I love the life a page can hold, the bruises, mistakes, and jumbled-up ideas. It is all a recipe, a recipe for us.
Simple forgotten messages and words, a haven of our joy.
So now, I will write notes. Messages from a pen; a gift I hope will be appreciated. An attempt to relieve and nurture the bundle of words that can not be spoken, only written. Among my xoxo’s and random remarks, I write between the lines. A reminder of the time that has passed since I realized how much a message from a pen means to me.
