As a species, we have a grand and pretty fucktarded preoccupation with love. There are literally millions of songs and poems and books and films that have been written about love -- finding it, losing it, wanting it, needing it, taking it for granted, and on and on and on. I would hazard a guess that there is no other topic that has been covered as thoroughly as love ... or as poorly. Love is a battlefield. Love roller coaster. Love gun. If you had no concept of love, pop culture would make you think it was just something that had a shitty beat and maybe came from England.
In point of fact, despite the lamentations of popular music since the 1950s or so, in which every other song about love focused on the way the singer sucked and had lost his special gal, there's kind of a slow-boiling excitement to being in love that I'll just describe as a low-grade kind of joy. Not to diminish it and suggest it's lesser than the joy you feel when you get an onion ring in your fries -- it's just a kind of background thrill that's always there.
They're also another thing Aristotle would have tried to fuck.
Make no mistake -- as a species, we take the things we have for granted. That's why it's readily acknowledged that any relationship has a sort of honeymoon phase where everything is new and exciting, but then fast-forward 15 years and you have Bundy-esque relationships where everything is stale and bitter. That's not true for everyone, but we all let things lapse, and the newness can never last forever, so we grow accustomed to this person we love. They become a stable part of our routine, and we maybe don't have all the reasons we love them present and available in our minds all the time. It's a disservice to ourselves, them, and the notion that we love them at all, but it's often unavoidable.
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They'll pick up after you. They love you, after all ... probably.
This doesn't mean every love grows stale; it just means you need to be aware of the person you love and aware of that feeling, that background joy you feel because you are in love, and bring it forward now and then. When you grow too used to another person, even someone you love more than your own life, it's that double-edged sword. You forget to let them know that. You don't buy flowers for no reason, or go out to a nice dinner, or savage each other like wild animals in the shower, because you're so comfortable and accustomed to being Aristotle's two bodies with one soul that you just live. You exist. You forget. That's dangerous territory, man. Work!