Nothing forms you as the nonevent forms you. A nonnight in a noncity in a nonroom, and the nongesture goes on happening forever. No moment is as eternal as the unfulfilled moment.
There is, of course, no making sense of it, and that is not even how one should frame it, but the ghost demands a home anyway, and what better place to shelter a ghost than in introspection?
I have yet to make sense of whether this is a cruelty or a tenderness, the fact that what you most relive is this eternal phantom memory of that which was never lived at all. The grief has nowhere to go with this collapse. And so, yes, higher than actuality stands possibility.
“A new beginning can only mean that we have, in all innocence, forgotten the beginning. In any case, beginning means forgetting,” writes Jabés. “We think we begin, whereas we always start over, with both what is manifest and what withdraws into its night.” (tr. Rosmarie Waldrop)
Dearest, it's still very early, work is waiting, the boss is waiting.. but I'm still sitting here at the typewriter, spending time on you.
Franz Kafka, 1916.
(Kafka's typewriter at work:)