I NEVER THOUGHT LOVE LETTERS could become as trivial as gossip magazine headlines. I wouldn't have believed it if someone had told me. I wouldn't believe any of it if I hadn't witnessed it myself, with my own eyes, ears, and heart.

I know I'm not the best of writers. My reflections on love and loving don't hold a candle to any poorly executed attempt by a good poet. But, nonetheless, the letters I write come from the depths of my soul, and they don't make it onto paper without a bit of sweat and effort. Some of them ache inside me for so long — until they're ready to emerge and expose themselves to the world — that I start to consider them as spare organs.

After pouring myself over blank pages and depositing on them the most intimate and secretive thoughts I could express, seeing them slide into oblivion without being felt, without a shred of introspection, or perhaps, a bit of gratitude, is distressing, suffocating, intolerable. I begin to think it must feel like being stabbed in the back! Am I being dramatic? A little drama is always necessary for someone passionate about passionate gestures.

How can I come to terms with it? Read, only read! Just read. And that's it!

I return to the question: born in the wrong era. I should belong to the time when people risked their necks for a piece of paper with vows and sentiments. When men and women dared to scribble marriage proposals, or pleas for escape, even if it cost them their lives.

And don't tell me some people find it easier to speak. Don't justify it with the argument that while I spend hours stringing together ideas and turning them into literal examples, others just pick up the phone and declare themselves, with much more courage and directness. One thing has nothing to do with the other, as there are many different forms of declarations. It won't be long until someone says that emails count too. I'd be rolling on the floor laughing, with disgust!

To this day, I've never expected to receive a love letter. Even if it's written with crooked words, without agreement or verbs conjugated incorrectly. But if one day I'm lucky enough, I'll read it with all my heart, I'll absorb every tacky, cheesy, clichéd, and tacky word. Even if, in the end, I have to disappoint its author and say I don't feel the same. Even so, I would treat that simple piece of paper with respect, recognition, and affection.

I don't want to stop writing them! But I can't any more know that the trash, the outside of the heart, and superficiality will be their destination. Maybe I'll write them and keep them just for myself...