I know I mentioned few months ago in this post about desiring love letters. But I can't help it.
I am reading Mansfield Park and feeling the distance of it.
As someone who writes as a way of life, I know the movement letters bring to my state of mind, to my soul.
Most likely why I keep getting into long distance relationships. I know that they are doomed from the get go for various reasons, but I also know what getting those letters can do. Okay emails, but it's nether here nor there. No pun intended.
Why am I such a sucker for the written word? Well because of the Osteogenesis Imperfecta and having to be indoors all the time, and not having had the normal life of parties and sports. My two main ways of keeping in touch with people were telephone and letters.
I know it's one of the reasons that endeared Dargo to me so much. He would write me every day, few times a day and still phone me at night.
It was nice knowing I was on his mind.
Movies and books were my main hobbies. Still are.
No wonder I don't have a husband, look at how sappy I sound. Where was I heading with this? Right letters.
So I am reading Mansfield Park, reading the part where Fanny Price has gotten her letters from Mary Crawford and waiting still to hear from her cousin Edmund, to the point where she has made herself sick.
I understand that. That longing. That desire. To know you mean something to someone, to know you are on someone's mind.
I miss that. Miss that feeling. That surety. I haven't found it since Dargo, and I have tried.
Maybe that's the problem, we find a quality in someone we hold with such a dear regard and it out shines so much else.
I would be lying if I said I have not been greatly disappointed by the men I have met since Dargo, in their lack of communication. But you all know this already. My rapid rants have led you to come to no other conclusion.
There is so much to be found in the books of Jane Austen that could be taken as a manual for life.
Sometimes a few pages is all that is needed.