Soulmates tend to find each other during their respective pursuits of their soul missions. Creating a soulmate could be seen as a spiritual reward that we give ourselves, after pursuing many soul contracts rife with discord.
I don’t hear your words: your voice reverberated against my body like another kind of caress, another kind of penetration. I have no power over your voice. It comes straight from you to me. I could stuff my ears and it would find its way into my blood and make it rise.
I am impervious to the flat visual attack of things. I see your khaki shirt hung up on a peg. It is your shirt and I could see you in it — you, wearing a color I detest. But I see you, not the khaki shirt. Something stirs in me as I look at it, and it is certainly the human you. It is a vision of the human you revealing an amazing delicacy to me. It is your khaki shirt and you are the man who is the axis of my world now. I revolve around the richness of your being.
…“Come closer to me, come closer. I promise you it will be beautiful.”
You keep your promise.
You carry your vision, and I mine, and they have mingled. If at moments I see the world as you see it, you will sometimes see it as I do.”
I know what this is going to sound like. Surely you’re wiser in your youth than I could ever hope to be in my old age. I feared my own father’s advice because I feared confrontation with him, terrified of what he may say if he called me into the room when my sisters weren’t around. Afraid he knew my secrets; that he may dangle them over my head, waiting for the perfect punishment.
I was never comfortable with myself, but I looked up to my father. Yet he was silent because in our home, men did not speak of the things they struggled with: women, overwhelming lust, a desperate need to find their place in this world.
I was ashamed because I felt these things and believed I was alone.
I know of your struggles, my son, because you are a man just as I am. Because of this, I am not disappointed in you. We are not perfect. We are fallen men. Our hope cannot lie within each other. Because one day I will fail you. I will hurt you. And I am so sorry for it. I so badly want to do everything right for you, but we were not created in the concept of right and wrong. We were created for life and for love. So take comfort in my love. It remains unconditional and constant.
It is my job to show you what it takes in this world to be a man who loves, forgives, and is merciful. To show you what it means to be a gentleman. A man of God awaiting his Goddess to come. Until one day, when you are old enough, you will leave your home and set forth on your own, writing the story you’ve been called to tell. Creating a home of your own. My job is to teach you to stand up for what you believe in, no matter what it is you choose to believe.
I will teach you to stand when a woman enters the room, to hold the door for her, and to never go in her purse without permission. That even when she’s 99.9% wrong, and you’re only 0.01% to blame, you still apologize. I will tell you it’s OK to bring flowers on the first date, and to call her the next day instead of waiting three. I will teach you to tie a tie, and shave with deliberate strokes. I will teach you to respect women, to honor them, and to learn from them. They will teach you things that I cannot. They’re holding tighter to our hearts than they will ever realize. And you will learn this not through my words, but during the moment when she squeezes too hard. It will hurt. But broken is just experience for the best of hearts.
This is no reason not to love, not to risk. If we are not loving nor taking risks, we’re not truly living.
So carve your heart onto the page with your pen.
And with that same hand, protect the heart of the woman your name has been written on and given to you to hold.
Listen, always, before you speak. Then choose your words carefully as they can bring life, and they can bring death.
Your tears do not make you less of a man, and your fists do not make you more of one.
Know it’s impossible to live without regrets, but it is possible to live without making the same mistakes twice. Keep your heart teachable. The teachable man will always get the job before the personable one who claims to know it all already.
And know when you are on your own, that you are not alone.
Everywhere I go, I am challenged. I am tempted. I lust. Just as you do, and will. And the world is going to tell you that it is OK to use pornography when you’re lonely, that you should sleep with and give your heart to as many women as possible before marriage, that just one drink won’t hurt, that we only live once.
Though I will never tell you how to live, I will only encourage you to live the way you were created to. A way that represents you as a gentleman. As a man who puts himself second to others. A way that reflects you’re willing to wait to give yourself to the one who shares all your beliefs, trusts you and knows your heart; has your heart. Wait to give yourself to a best friend you can laugh with, and cry your eyes out with moments later. Make sure she is someone worth dying for.
Having another notch in our belts does not make us better men.
We go searching for stories in the wrong places when we aren’t living out the story intended for us. I promise to help you write your story.
There is a future out there somewhere with your name written all over it.
Only you can decide if you want to live everyone else’s future, or if you want to live your own.
My boy, you are beautiful. I am proud of you, and honored to have you as a son.
“That’s what real love amounts to - letting a person be what he really is. Most people love you for who you pretend to be. To keep their love, you keep pretending - performing. You get to love your pretence. It’s true, we’re locked in an image, an act - and the sad thing is, people get so used to their image, they grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are. And if you try to remind them, they hate you for it, they feel like you’re trying to steal their most precious possession.”—Jim Morrison
“I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
who made me laugh
“The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.
No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is they type.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator; and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.
The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.”—Oscar Wilde