I received a postcard unexpectedly today. Traditional mail is perhaps one of the few real romantic things left in the world. My parents once told me that they would use steam to heat the stamps off their letters so they could re-use them again and again. How precious!
I find the idea of a Museum of Innocence intriguing, as if it contains something that is already lost. I had a debate about purity today - is purity remaining untainted by letting everything wash over one's self without thought or by actively, literally, purifying yourself, to remain/become clean? A kind of distillation so to speak? But, perhaps, pure is indeed to be without filter. To be pure undiluted goodness.
I am amazed at the seeker of purity
who when it's time to be polished
complains of rough handling.
- Rumi
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