Can I tell you a story?
I was sitting in a coffee shop one day, at the end of a long week full of disappointments and a faint, generic feeling of what I used to think was heartache. My job was cutting my hours, the girl I'd been seeing decided that it wasn't a very good time for us to be together, and my parents were driving me nuts on an almost constant basis.
As I sipped my coffee, read my book, and contemplated my week, it occurred to me that the simplest thing that could cheer me up would be a few nice words. Any nice words would do, any form of encouragement to keep going and treat the downers of life less like a pile of failure and more like an endless black hole where they all just went away sooner or later. At that point I started thinking how sad it was that no one wrote love letter very often anymore, and even less common were hand-written letters. After a few minutes of those thoughts, I got out my notebook.
After all, if anyone can write a good love note, I can.
I stared at the blank page for what seemed like a long time. Being in such a frustrated state, it was hard for me to conjure any positive words to anyone. What's worse is that I didn't feel like I had anyone to write a note to, uplifting or otherwise. My mind immediately directed towards the recipient of my letter, and stopped right there with no intention of moving. After a few minutes I was ready to give up and just go smoke another cigarette, but then it hit me: Maybe the recipient wasn't necessarily the most important part of the equation. Maybe just writing something positive would, by itself, make me feel better about all the petty things getting me down. I began with the most generic line I could think of.
"Dear Stranger,"
Then it just flowed. All the things I wanted to vent, and all the great things I thought about this person I don't know, they just erupted onto the page. I felt amazing afterwards, and decided I'd leave it in a random place for that random person to find. However, another situation arose, another issue. Who would I sign it as? It seemed to me that me and this stranger were both nameless, faceless, well-wishers to the other. The signature stated simply, elegantly:
"Love, A Stranger."
I was sitting in a coffee shop one day, at the end of a long week full of disappointments and a faint, generic feeling of what I used to think was heartache. My job was cutting my hours, the girl I'd been seeing decided that it wasn't a very good time for us to be together, and my parents were driving me nuts on an almost constant basis.
As I sipped my coffee, read my book, and contemplated my week, it occurred to me that the simplest thing that could cheer me up would be a few nice words. Any nice words would do, any form of encouragement to keep going and treat the downers of life less like a pile of failure and more like an endless black hole where they all just went away sooner or later. At that point I started thinking how sad it was that no one wrote love letter very often anymore, and even less common were hand-written letters. After a few minutes of those thoughts, I got out my notebook.
After all, if anyone can write a good love note, I can.
I stared at the blank page for what seemed like a long time. Being in such a frustrated state, it was hard for me to conjure any positive words to anyone. What's worse is that I didn't feel like I had anyone to write a note to, uplifting or otherwise. My mind immediately directed towards the recipient of my letter, and stopped right there with no intention of moving. After a few minutes I was ready to give up and just go smoke another cigarette, but then it hit me: Maybe the recipient wasn't necessarily the most important part of the equation. Maybe just writing something positive would, by itself, make me feel better about all the petty things getting me down. I began with the most generic line I could think of.
"Dear Stranger,"
Then it just flowed. All the things I wanted to vent, and all the great things I thought about this person I don't know, they just erupted onto the page. I felt amazing afterwards, and decided I'd leave it in a random place for that random person to find. However, another situation arose, another issue. Who would I sign it as? It seemed to me that me and this stranger were both nameless, faceless, well-wishers to the other. The signature stated simply, elegantly:
"Love, A Stranger."
