Should all good things require an expiry date?
If we think about it, people’s most beloved items always has an expiry date. Always have a time when it ends or at least best before date.
I wonder how accurate a world where love has a definite expiry date would be.
After all, if you are with the same someone forever, and ever and ever, you’d probably get sick of them at one point (we get sick of ourselves regularly). For love, and intimate relationships are bound to the strings of fate in our identities' evolution. A romantic relationship only flourishes past the best before date if the pair co-evolve along the same trajectory. It is only in stubbornness that the thorns of a non-nutritious romance are continually fertilized and watered. Might definitive and non-changeable expiration dates liberate the individual from his pride and fear of loss? It would be as if, like life, you enter in knowing exactly how it ends, making the experience all the more bitter-sweet. That your relationship would be chalk outlined with an expiration date from the start. There it is, in plain site, the crime scene of an expired love.
Our conditioning to consumerist romanticism scoffs; but if you could get beyond that, might it be the best way to live? One might think that if darting out of the corner of the eye, a continually ticking clock might prompt us to drop minuscule arguments, dramatic escalations, and just be happy together while time lasts. For, no matter how much you panic, become anxious or angry, you can never catch all the ticking sands of the elusive “time remaining”. Of course with the Cupid's clock running thin, the vibrant games and playfulness involved: the tick for a tack and push to pull of courtship might be lost – might even all desire for love and intimacy too?
Maybe the Middle Way of a relational reality without the ticking clock is to simply accept people for who and what they are, and perhaps act as an agent which glides in and arcs out of peoples’ lives at a particular time when they need our sense of personality and being to grow. Like a friendly ghost, they appear and then vanish from existence, leaving nothing but an imprinted memory – never forgotten. And that memory floats in, involuntarily from time to time: sea side or in the park, in the wafting of a cologne's aroma or on the way to the grocery store, in the tails of a peacoat or the sun's reflection off a women's red hair – only to remind you that an expired love has passed you by.