Love Letters for Him and Her

Mr. Mullet

And Dating Advice on Why You Shouldn't Edit Yourself for True Love

https://img.particlenews.com/image.php?url=1rxpmh_0YjDQsR300Photo by Darius Bashar on Unsplash

Love Letters for Him and Her.

You let go of something intangibly hopeful when love leaves you.

You still aren’t sure what that hope came from or where it currently resides inside you or even if it’s an essence, or a feeling, or maybe just an uncertain nostalgia of what could have been.

Yet, when the broken knot in your chest spins tighter and hangs your heart in a noose, can’t you just let your feet dangle in the wind?

Or should you?

Maybe you want to commiserate in that melancholy victimhood or maybe you want to long for that insatiable belonging — and play that feeling over and over and over  in your soul.

Even when that gentle wind first blew away your sins and left you seen — the sands never stopped singing beneath the water, the suns never stopped revolving above us, and the rain still came. You should have known better than to reach for a deeper kind of love that wishes upon stars and tastes better than cotton candy. Yet, you relish their soft plume and miss the sweetness as soon as it evaporates from the touch of your wet lips.

Will you love again?

You know that feeling before a race begins when you crouch in the blocks and know too many people will watch you break into your full stride to tear through the wind towards the finish line?

This was your love — too soft, too tender, too scared to keep sprinting around the bend to race in front of the grandstand.

Like Rumi said,

“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.”

Do you know who you’ll become without them?

You should.

Will you remind yourself to breathe deep and always tell the next one the silly whispers of your soul?

You should.

Will you learn from your mistakes, and pull your dangling feet from the wind?

You will. 

Yes, you were out there, in the field, fighting like gallant knights discovering the latches behind the armor you put over your hearts. There are always chinks. Blemishes. Cracks. You have them too. You told them you only wanted to know them from underneath — the goofy truths and the slow loyal parts, like the way they hold the number two pencil on the inside of their third finger while they scribble into a black leather-bound journal, or what the need for organic-grass-fed Argan oil is. 

You will miss their morning romps on the piano and the slow realization this kind of love is better than your slow roast morning coffee.

You hold onto these precious memories like a psychopath killer keeps trinkets or rings or locks of hair or goes back to the scene of the crime to feel it all over again — but you are no killer. You are a budding ethical and hopeful serial monogamist. You just can’t forget the way they held an egg bacon bagel and let the viscous grease drip down their chin. You’ll still dream of those eyes, the deep greens growing as coniferous as Northern Michigan. In many ways, she will have pieces hidden away in your subconscious, like fragments of dreams you keep attempting to vocalize.

These are things that could have been.

Your feet are still hanging in the wind, aren’t they?

Yet, you never saw them, they never saw you, and you held back your truth. 

You edited genuine ingredients of yourself, which is something you should never do — not for them, not for anyone.

There is hope for you. The platonic side of love is where trust uncoils the latches and noose knots over your heart— where you truly thrive and begin an infinite romance within your physical desires. This is where lovers meet in infinite ways, in infinite fields, with no wrongdoing or right doing, just consuming time as quickly as hungry clowns and sharpening their teeth like barracudas inside each other’s minds.

You cannot fake this satiety or authenticity, so stop trying.

Let it be you, once and for all — voice what you want and who they are to you. Voice your flaws, your blind spots, and know it’s okay to be wrong.

At the very least, just be yourself, or better, your best self.

Yet, as you can’t choose to eat more and weigh less, you can’t decide to love them more and still make it be real to each other.

True love doesn’t work this way.

And yet, hope moves in mysterious ways — even when you left home and slept on an air mattress in an empty apartment to be near them, even when you wondered when you’d meet their daughters, sons, families, and friends. 

In the infinite shadow of true love, know there is no possession — no eternal wrong. Forgiveness helps unity, dialogue is bravery, and great sex is exploring vulnerability.

Expecting perfection is the devil’s noose.

What did you expect from them, and what did they expect from you?

Pull your feet from the wind now, release the binds inside yourself, and let your heart beat again.

People say, “Life is short,” but is it really?

I tend to disagree. Life will be long and hard and depressing if we cannot be true to who and what and why we actually are around the people we are trying to love the most.

Love is a verb, and it goes both ways.

Be safe in this next love, in your authenticity, and let the wind untie your binds, and untangle your flapping feet. And mostly, think about the kind of love you’ll sprint around the bend for, full-on right in front of the grandstand— because this isn’t the cotton candy kind.

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Mr. Mullet tells us European how pro sports, love to life lessons, wild travel experiences, and awakening the dreams of those stuck in the American Matrix are connected. Most importantly, Mr. Mullet lives his life like a mullet.

Chicago, IL
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