Cycle. Circle, if you prefer. Lions tend to. A child is born. A rock makes it way around the sun. Rinse, repeat.
It's an odd feeling, riding the wind into the hurricane only to see clearly, as it fizzles, that it was a later flap of the wings which will bring the pain. Maybe.
Plans change. People get older. Paths diverge, but the difference is all in your head. All directions head towards The End.
Hypothetically, there is now one additional light waiting, baiting breath, to be put out. The wish remains the same though. It's still in your head.