Hearts can starve as well as bodies

Lying in bed last night, one of the nagging voices in my head suggested to me that maybe I should actually do something with all of the text messages that I draft to you, but can never manage to send.

At first, I considered sending them to myself, but that would display each message twice, and I could simply not abide the senseless replication; duplicity I can endorse— duplication, on the other hand, I cannot.

Then I contemplated sending them all to a random telephone number. What would the recipient have to say about these written wreckages? Would there be a response at all? Would the person on the receiving end block me, or eagerly anticipate more, restlessly waiting for a new message to bring light to the dark and lonely smartphone screen? Deep down, is this stranger as desperate as the rest of us for some kind of human contact outside of the constraint of social constructs? Or would these SMS signals of mine be seen as so much spam, and discarded?

It then occurred to me that I should just start adding all the robocallers I get to a group text, and transmit to them every message meant for you. The poets tell us over and over that love conquers all, so let us put that theory to this test — if it can beat the telemarketers, it may just make a believer out of the jaded old cynic behind these curtains.

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