We've all been caught red handed passing notes back and forth to our grade school infatuations. Did you know that this tradition dates back to the earliest civilizations? Not only that, passing quickly scribbled, clandestine love notes is a tradition that transcends cultures, languages and even social class.
Anthony and Cleopatra were so filthy, you can translate here if you really must.
From the ancient empires of Egypt and Rome, folks have thrilled in leaving secret messages for the objects of their affection. Some lovers made bold gestures to get attention, like the Taj Mahal, while others rejoiced in nervously scribbling and passing along their feelings during psych lectures and math classes.
Neither peasant, nor poet can stay themselves from being drawn into a sordid correspondence. All other meaningful tasks fall away as one's focus sharpens on the torrent task before one's eyes.
From Literary Legend Lewis Carroll to one "Alice."
Oh the thrill is so irristable, it matters not whether you are the author or the recipient of such a giddy little piece of news. How indescribable is the welling up of excitement when you put pen to paper, chisel to stone, or crushed berry pigment to cave wall. The charge of making brief contact with your beloved during the hand off, followed by the divine agony of anticipation as you wait for the reply.
And you, the receiver of such news, oh how you are nearly overwhelmed by the rush of terror and delight as you peel open the folded pronouncement of love. You can scarcely draw a straight line as you attempt to pencil a terse yet powerful reply that will either make all off your suitor's dreams come true or dash them against the rocks of rejection.
Among the doodles that got him flunked out of art school.
These days we move ever further away from the romance of courtship. The dance seems to have slowed from an enticing waltz, to a single loud knocking of the boots. Gone are the canvases, the sandstone, and the parchment as in their place the glowing screen of a more modern tablet strips away the pageantry down to its naked objective.
Where once we performed ceremonious tasks, expended gregarious amounts of energy on displays of prowess, now in mere seconds with a flick of the finger, you can make a fuck date while taking a shit at the mall. Alas, it's my curse to be such an old romantic...