We interrupt the usual commentary and ranting to bring you something short, sweet and simple:
It is strange to live in a city that is so densely packed with people, yet feel so incredibly isolated on the subways, in Starbucks, at the poorly-designed Trader Joe's on 72nd. I find the more I spend sitting on a packed and dirty train, the more I withdraw to connect in a different way, one that I've always cherished and loved: letter writing.
Writing letters on the subway is much like writing in my diary on family road trips. The writing is uneven and it is obvious to the reader when you've hit a bump in the road. The thoughts in it are rambling and loose, and it's less about the noise around you distracting you as it is about the noise around you inspiring you.
"There's a man across from me reading a leatherbound text," I scribbled in a recent letter. "I wonder how many times he's read that book." And then the observation launches into a deeper connection, and it feels natural, candid, real.
I used to think exchanges like this were lost without snail mail as abundant as it once was. But email exchanges, I've found since relocating across the country, can be just as rewarding and deep, as can instant messages--as evidenced by a recent chat with Jason as we worked and pondered life, the universe and everything.
What all of these things represent is a mutual need to share with one another the details of your life beyond "what did you eat today?" and "how much coffee have you had?" Perhaps there is no need to share these details anymore since we give them up so freely on Facebook and Twitter.
Anyways, carry on.