I was digging through notebooks in the storage room today and came across an old letter from my father, tucked away in one of my childhood diaries. Blue ink on one of those yellow envelope-cum-letters, quaint woodland creatures painted against a background of flowering trees on varying topography.
Before we got accustomed to digital means of communication we used to write each other letters. In fact, during the early phase of our emailing, father used to print out the emails we'd send. There's a couple of stacks of printed emails in my mother's letter-trunk; that trunk contains my parents' handwritten correspondence in its entirety and my mother says that I am to inherit it soon.
One of the issues I have with modern communication is that no one has the time to write letters for leisure anymore. To me that's a problem, as I can self-express best through the handwritten word. Maybe I've been born fifty years too late. Or maybe, if the dystopian tales are to be believed, fifty years too early.