Maybe if we stopped only seeing people through the filter of what they could someday be and be for us, we’d stop wanting forever love and start to fall in love with the Sunday kind of love. The waking up with your legs intertwined in white sheets with someone you love, but that’s all you know. And that’s all you have to know. Sunday is a day of staying. It’s a day of resolve for all your weekend decisions. You spend it hungover or in the arms of a beautiful stranger. Sundays have an aura of impertinence and passivity. You spend more of the day waiting for Monday, or at least thinking about it, and you don’t have the expectations like you did the night before. You love someone for that day and don’t expect to wake up with you tomorrow, but you love them anyway.
Maybe it’s the culmination of Sunday loves that give something lasting power. Not the idea that it will last. Maybe the effort is in letting it be effortless. Maybe it’s just worth one more morning of uncertainty before we become certain. And maybe it’s learning to love Sundays whether or not there’s someone in those sheets with you. Maybe making the day beautiful is how we learn to love love when it comes, rather than expecting it to make brunch worthwhile.
Maybe part of the reason that love becomes such a volatile force in our lives when it’s supposed to be so still and beautiful is that we keep reaching for that forever love. We can’t just let it be what it is. We try to make feelings and interest sustain themselves for years and years when they just don’t have that kind of staying power. But how much of it is a result of our own changing and how much is the fact that forever love comes with so many expectations and too much pressure? What if it’s really that nobody is to blame, other than whoever instilled in us the idea that “forever” was the ultimate kind of love? Because what if we stopped expecting and started just being.
I think that’s what scares people. I think they choose to not love someone because of what it means for the long-term instead of having any interspersed bits of love. But those bits might be all we ever have. It’s out of them that the rest grows.