I haven't blogged much because I'm still enveloped in a hazy bubble of love. Almost 6 months have passed and I'm still floating on a cloud, scared that if I dwell too long on it, trying to capture my bliss in physical words, it would all dissipate. I don't want to jinx my happiness.
Life is good these days. Travel, taking time for myself, planning, and of course, love.
I'm moving to a new flat in a month or so and taking this opportunity to organize and throw stuff away with the idea that I'll eventually be leaving this city for new horizons. It's amazing how much one accumulates. I came to Hong Kong with 2 suitcases about 5 years ago and now, it'll take about 2 moving trucks for all my things. Ideally, I want to pare down my possessions by half.
While clearing out some shelves, I found my ragged shoebox of old love letters. I've written many posts previously about the fuzzy warmth of first love and how hard it is to let go but I thought maybe it is time now to shed this weight, figuratively and literally.
Reading old love letters is strangely sweet. You're reminded of your less-burdened/jaded/cynical younger self, and despite how terribly the relationship ended, you're reminded of why you loved that person once upon a time and how once upon a time, someone loved you enough to write you a love letter. Reading old love letters is also strangely intrusive. Seeing his handwriting, his terms of endearments for me, and the feelings that aren't for me anymore... it's as if I'm peeking into a life that isn't mine and was never mine really.
Why do people hang onto old love letters?
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