Loving wine is about loss.
Flip the coin and you might also argue that loving wine is a voyage of discovery; every wine tasted - every single one, even brother bottles from the same case - is different, because it is tasted on a different day, at a different stage of its maturity, opened for a different length of time and sipped from different stemware with a different number of people imbibing it and different foodstuffs accompanying it, or not.
But this is why, to me, mélancolique de l'automne that I am, I see it also as a certain sense of loss. You can never wet the rim of your lip with the exact same 1990 Figeac or 2005 Thomas Sancerre Cuvée Spéciale. And that very first taste of Selosse Substance that had me laughing will have me sit back, maybe, at some future point, and furrow my brow, wipe my lip and take another bite of lobster bread pudding.
Wine is an alchemical substance more than a simple draught. It is a philter, and a filter for our experience and our emotions.
So maybe I should be glad it is so unrepeatable. I hate repetition.
I'm in no danger, here.