Lazy Letter: The Post Office

Lazy Letter: The Post Office

┬áP.S. Seems like it’s turned into a routine now; I visit every post office in the neighborhood I reside. I sometimes find myself writing to more people than I actually have physical contacts with. Traveling long-term had another aspect that I would have never anticipated; loneliness, and there’s no getting away from it. Is it sad that I’m getting used to it?! My mother believes so. “You’ve been living alone for too long” she complained the other day. I’m mostly surrounded by friends and magnificent people, but guess she’s right, I really am alone. I try to contribute more as long as I’m staying with my family. I just got off the phone with her, asked her where the post office was. I couldn’t remember, although I’ve lived in this neighborhood all throughout my childhood and teenage life. Funny how I also wrote letters back then. And how I’m back to this fine habit again?! Who’s to tell? What was I influenced by? Or do I do this simply because it feels right?! Because I’m lonely? It’s rather old-fashioned, I must admit, it drags me back in time. Around the twenties perhaps. A bit terrifying when it comes to filling the address at the back of the envelope. What if I make a mistake?! I’m so good at making mistakes!

I found the post office. The store was old, dusty and very messy. Good thing that I didn’t have to spend much time there, otherwise I’d get a major depression. Although mom gave a full explanation about the location, I still had to ask a couple of people on my way there. Perhaps I like asking questions to random strangers. Or I just hate getting lost! And even though people were amazingly helpful with the address, and the post office wasn’t hidden under a mysterious spell, I perfectly managed to enter the place from the back door, and embarrass myself happily ever after. Anyway, I then re-entered the place from the front door, and acted as if nothing had happened.

I reached the counter to ask the man for envelopes and stamps. He was standing casually as if he’d stopped by for tea. He was bald with a big belly, just like all the other middle-aged men around here. He asked me how many envelopes I needed, and I had to think for a minute before I could give him the exact number. He handed me the envelopes but told me that he couldn’t give me any stamps. “What do you mean?!” I was shocked. “How many postages would you wanna put on your envelopes?!” He actually made fun of me for not knowing how things work around here. Well, the postage was unexpectedly expensive, and I had to cover one side of the envelope with the old stamps. But, he was mean, and I had to mock him in the face in return. He called for it.

From what I understood, traditional stamps don’t really work around here anymore, and they print one of those digital barcodes on the packages or envelopes. It seemed too pricey for me, far more expensive than you’d think it might cost you to send a piece of paper and a card to a friend. Besides all of that, what’s the point of sending a letter when they don’t even put a colorful stamp on your envelope?

13.Jun.17 – Tehran, Iran

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