Sometimes I need to write to clear my mind. a re-organisation of some sort. Its not an exercise in dumping and unloading but perhaps a manner of making it a more hospitable space.

What is it about letters that a journal cannot satisfy?

In this age its not the social norm anymore. It is an obsolete and even puzzling thing to receive and generates curiosity as to why and who would waste the time and effort etching down the blueprint of their soul and requesting a slow and uneconomical service to deliver it.

Clinging desperately to my paper, pen and stamps, even as the internet beckons with business-orientated reliability and instant gratification.

I can only assume that few who receive letters stop to question why the person bothered if not for some shrewd gain. I can only assume that most of them are pleased with the gift and it seems in this age a thank you via text or facebook is sufficiently polite a response. I can only assume because no one has responded with a 'why'.

Perhaps only the writer is in doubt over his or her actions. Mostly because a letter is not a gift.

Why do I continue? I need not the security they way bank statements think the postal service has over emails, nor am I sending items undeliverable via a scanner and unreceivable via an inbox. Am I sending my love? No. I refuse the automatic nostalgic association designed to simplify this antiquated practice. Surely I do not need letters and mail to express my care to those whom I cherish? Neither do I want them to constantly have this nagging item in their home reminding them of my existence (a photo not a letter would have been adequate).

I am in pursuit of an answer but I like the pursuit. I like the pursuit but I don't need an answer. I don't need the answer but the lack of one is not why I pursue it.

'But surely you know why you do it!'

I don't. No one would tell me

but I shall continue without regret.