Message in a Bottle

Words.  
Written.  Spoken. Sung. Read. Listened.
Words. 
Of love, of pain, of distress, of yearning, of beseech, of aid--even of anger. 
Words.
Building worlds, breaking them, to mend them back together--or not. 
Words.
Constructing thoughts, unveiling feelings, founding knowledge. 
Words. 
Describing personal and universal realms, allowing connection.
Words.

How vital are they for us?  This is rhetorical.  
We build language through words--not only written and spoken: a certain gesture defies distances of oceans and continents, and still communicates a certain essential message. We possess the powerful tool of connection through the use of language.  We even create poetry, art, with language.
What about the universal language of music? Rhetorical once again. 

Today i'm thinking about written words, nonetheless. I've been diving into a magical world through a book i grab and cherish every night.  
A confession: sometimes i see myself with time to grab my book, in the middle of the day, and resist.  Resist because it's such pleasure to go to bed and welcome the world of those ink words, knowing i'll then surrender to my dreams with such magic and beauty.  
What am i reading? 
Letters to Olga (Cartas a Olga) by Anton Checkhov--or Chejov, in Spanish. 
A collection of letters between these two souls, between 1900 and 1904, years in which they explore their feelings, give in to their love and affection, marry, challenge physical distance between them, discuss and live through art (she acts, he writes), go crazy over their passion, examine insecurities, moments of pain, explode in joy, amuse each other with their wit, and overall love. Love. 
These two souls existed.  They sat under a tree in Yalta, cried over a piece of paper in a candlelit room in Moscow, inhaled the air of Petersburg, formed the thoughts, felt the feelings, and delivered their souls in these private correspondences i'm now reading every night.

I feel like a spy. 
It makes me a bit nervous, i must admit. 
At times i stop and think about them, and wonder if they ever thought someone like me would be reading such personal messages.  And it makes me a bit uneasy. 

I melt.  I do.  I melt at their humanity. At their simplicity, at their complexity, their authenticity. 
I kneel before language. I am able to access this piece of life from the past and realize the universal-everlasting language of love and life. 
Their letters allows me to open the door to Russia, to a world i didn't (and never will) be a part of.  I've read the outstanding plays of Anton Checkov, but now, I can explore a piece of his world-- color my glass of perception in a similar shade as his.  And Olga, as an actress, as a human being, as a lover, a beating heart of a specific era. 

Words. 
They create my world.  They nourish my life.  
Words.
Let my heart speak.
Words.
Put me sleep, make me dream, wake me up, allow me live. 

Fía.