There is far more of the past to review than there is of the future to anticipate. Think of a face or an event and it disengages a whole fragment of narrative spared of saving ignorances. Is it possible to take seriously the fiction of any 'it will have been' when you see how much you counted on 'it might still turn out to be'. You can't count on that now because after all the spinning of the wheel of multiple affinities you have come to understand that it was not designed to land anywhere. You must have missed the 'les jeux sont faits' but went on dwelling in the divisions, perhaps telling yourself that where there was such an abundance you could afford to do so and still come out on top on most, or at least one, of your paths, tactfully forgetting that division itself was the broad road you were barreling down. If there is no clarity to be gained in and through the world, there might at least be some in relation to the heart's desire as soon as you accept that it had no other destiny but to lead you to this brokenness. You were an exiled king whose homeland had long been abolished, handed over, perhaps, to those more apt to rule, but it still takes a long time to lose the regal airs.