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The letters that never come

Today, as I was writing to a long-neglected friend, I rued the fact that letters have become virtually non-existent. It seems like so long ago that there was the euphoria of seeing a colorful envelope, bearing an equally colorful stamp and my name, in the letter-box that usually lies vacant nowadays.

It seems like so long ago that every time I passed that red post-box, I made a mental list of people I would go back home and write to.

It seems like so long ago that I would beg dad to stop the car at the sight of that same red box so I could pop a letter into it.

I think letters have their own charm. That personalised feel, knowing that someone's actually taken time out for you. That closeness and warmth that only seeing their handwriting can bring. The typed emails, and latest in line, "scraps", seem so cold and artificial by contrast. I'm not saying they don't have their own advantages or that I don't believe in them; I'm as much a victim of the internet craze as everyone else.

I'm just saying that I really miss those letters that never come.