You can send letters to the Old Ones at any time of day or night.
The Old Ones are all those who are long gone. A cherished grandparent who lives no more. A political figure from the past. A God forgotten. A soldier fallen in war. Someone you knew. Someone who didn’t know you. Someone you imagined. Even to your own self from a past life.
The mailbox gathers every message and delivers it to the Old One it is addressed to.
(Don’t ask me how these things work. I’ve learnt long ago that sometimes oftentimes I am better off not knowing.)
You can write to an Old One and tell them about every heartbreak and agony, about every betrayal and injustice you face. About every promise that was made to you, only to be broken. About every thing you thought would bring you joy and happiness, only to find out that you had believed in a lie all along.
You can also write to an Old One about how the blue of the springtime sky fills your heart with hope. About how the new leaves on the trees are a psychedelic green. About how the sun pours warmth on you, a warmth you had forgotten in the lonely cold of the long, long winter.
Write your words with abandon. Write as if no one will read.
The Old Ones will read, of course. But mostly, they do not reply. Because they know that you’re not seeking guidance or advice. They know that what you need is someone who will simply listen.