We like to think memory keeps things safe. That somewhere, what has happened still exists exactly as it was, waiting for us to come back to it. But when I try to remember, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like touching something that moves as I reach for it, something that has already shifted before I can hold it. What returns is not the moment itself, but the space between then and now. The more I try to go back, the more I feel how far away it is.

Sometimes this distance takes a shape. Not clearly, not something I can name. More like a feeling. Like the horizon, where the sea and the sky seem to meet, but never really do. Or the blue of the sea itself, the way it keeps opening without giving you anything to hold onto. No edge. No fixed point. Just depth. Just something that continues. And maybe this is why blue begins to feel like more than a color, like a condition you enter without realizing, a kind of threshold where things begin to blur, where nothing holds quite the same way.

I used to think thresholds were meant to be crossed. That they opened onto something else. But there are certain thresholds that do not lead anywhere. One does not pass through them. One remains there.

I keep hearing Dorothy Molloy’s lines in this way: “into a world that is pure blue, where you are transformed utterly and forever. Amen.” It feels like being taken into something that has no outside. A “forever” that holds still. Not an ending that explains anything, just a stillness that remains. Something finished without ever quite feeling finished.

It is difficult to think of loss as something that leads somewhere else. It doesn’t open into a new beginning in any clear way. It fractures. When something like that happens, you don’t step into something new. You stay, in a way, inside the break. Time doesn’t move the same. The past doesn’t sit behind you anymore. It moves. It slips. It refuses to stay where it should.

And still, you return. To the same images, the same moments, the same attempts to understand what cannot be understood. You repeat them, not because they can be restored, but because they can’t. And each time, something changes. The image shifts. The feeling is not the same. What you thought you knew becomes unfamiliar. Repetition doesn’t bring anything back. It wears it down, gently, until what remains is its fragility.

It is somewhere in that failure, in that moment when returning no longer works, that something like a beginning appears. But not as a fresh start. Not as something clean. It doesn’t come after the ending. It grows inside it. To begin again is not to start over, but to move within what is already broken, to shape something out of what remains, even when it cannot be made whole. So beginning and ending stop being separate. They fold into each other. Every beginning carries what ended, and every ending continues, quietly, as something that cannot fully let go.

What remains, then, is not resolution. Just a space where things continue without settling. And if there is something final in all this, it is not closure. It is something quieter, a kind of absorption, a state where something has changed completely, and where, without noticing, you have already crossed into it, with no way back.