The lost art of letterwriting

Hand writing letters to another person has become obsolete, thanks to the soul killing age of information.
Don't you miss the exhilaration of an envelope coming out of the mailbox, a slightly scuffed pearl of white paper formed in part by its journey to the little black oystershell on the front of the house? Collecting these precious pieces into a string on a timeline where each one has a slightly different hue and different memory of the person who sent it to you, they are memento mori of moments long past. They are the elegies of persons you were, and of the relationships you had with other persons equally as past.
Recieving a letter is not just a snapshot of events, its a memorial of the soul. You now have a record of who this person is and how you interacted with him or her at just that era. You are a witness to another persons existence. The texture of the paper, the slant of the script, the colour of the ink - all these things instantiate human existence in such a way that can never be replicated in any other media.
I cannot reconcile myself to the loss of my humanity due to the infliction of society on my existence. I insist on letters, long frantic descriptions of not just the life that's happening around me, but also the life that's flourishing in my head. Because there are only so many ways we can make that connection and because I miss myself and I miss you...Because I miss the feel of another soul reaching out for mine in any way to breach the isolation of this situation.
Because I want a witness to my existence, and a memorial to my soul.

Its bad. And I appologise for putting this swill into the world

To the Man who Made me Mistress

To whom am I made mistress?
Where previously maid to myself,
now in bondage to another
faceless
nameless lady.

Or am I mistress to you
additional member of the harem
meant to be content to wait
and never enjoy
the moment
of arrival

And what's to be said of my moral fibre,
my resolve to minimise the collateral damage
of my life?
The fibres have been sold by you,
once i gave them away
after this i will not want them anyway.

Cemetary of Dead Metaphors

Mad as a hatter - trans. someone who demonstrates insane behaviour. Was once a reference to erradic behaviour in hat makers caused by mercury poisoning from the mercury-treated felt

Rule of thumb - trans. general precept. Originated from legislation saying a man was able to beat his wife with anything thinner than his thumb

Bated breath - trans. suspensful anticipation. Origin unknown

Pregnant pause - trans. a gap in conversation that is filled with meaning. Origin in biological sense of pregnancy and now a fully fledged metaphor all on its own

On the same page - to share an understanding or method of thought. Origin from book sharing in monasteries

Turn of phrase - I have no idea with this one. It sounds like something just born into metaphor.

Drought becomes flood

Now that I have a solid honors idea in place, I have come up with a variety of others that are also very intriguing:
A million little peices.....to what extent are authors to be held responsible to the public, is truth in fiction a responsibility?

In cold Blood and others: writers and their last books. What crushed thier desire?

Literature of Controversy: Is morality a matter of time?

Each era has its share of books deemed obscene and unfit for public consumption. Offences range from moral depravity in the fields of marriage (Madame Bovary, Jude the Obscure), sex (Most things by Oscar Wilde and Henry Miller), mental health (Suddenly Last Summer by Tennessee Williams which also deals with sex), class (Martin Amis, Gustav Flaubert, DH Lawrence), religion etc. These are just a minute sampling of the novels and authors that create massive upheaval and unrest in the hearts of the guardians of social convention.

The reactions to these troublemakers rarely seems to differ: stifle it, supress it, wipe it out of public consciousness. The more important question is not how do we deal with these literary subversives, but moreso does the content change as we progress. Does our sense of morality evolve, or only the extent of our willingness to ignore the underbelly of liminal activities and subject matter? Are there certain inalterable goods and evils in the world determining our acceptance and rejection of literature, or is morality only a matter of time?

Screw you and your claim to access to objective truth

Assuming there is an objective truth, people are far and wide out of their jurisdiction making claims to it. The often made mistake is that opinion is submitted in the form of truth. This deception leads to a corruption of society and to the concept of knowledge as we know it. If we arent careful, opinion will be taken as an accurate substitute for truth and we will be left in a world of illusion without even the desire to pull the veils away.

Many people ask the question, what is the point of knowledge anyhow? Why does it matter if we know the truth or if we live in a world of illusion? I'm not claiming that its wrong for us to choose illusion over reality. I am claiming, however, that it is important for us to be aware of the choice we are making. All our options must be made clear to us before we choose how we wish to live our lives if we are ever to make any decisions that are worthwile.