I often wonder about the times before communication methods were so abundantly available. Reading Kafka's Letters to Milena makes me almost long that I was born during that time.
There is a certain romanticism in waiting. In knowing that your time together is extremely precious, limited, fleeting. In sending your emotions to someone with no confirmation of receipt.
I can only try and imagine what the lack of certainty created - a constant need, a permanently unfulfilled desire, release only in small doses.
There is something poetic about reading what someone wrote many days ago, imagining where they were sitting, what they were wearing, how they smelt, as they wrote those words to you. A sense of nostalgia and realism, wrapped together carefully. There is also so much deliberation and intense emotion that goes into the act that it restricts the number of people one can share that emotion with, ensuring that when you do, the understanding is as deep as it gets. It takes the frivolity away from communication as we see it today.
While there is a definite comfort in knowing that you can reach out to your loved ones, no matter where they are, unfortunately, comfort doesn't breed art.
Given a choice, I would trade comfort for poetry, in a heartbeat, each time.