this year i have placed myself inside of previous years; recycled moments, impressions, and people. it's like dry-heaving endlessly crouched over a fucking metaphorical toilet; i keep coughing and spitting, but nothing comes out, this time around.
slept with a man i've slept with before; discarded people i've discarded before. moved back into a city i've moved into before; yelled claustrophobically at the ceiling, things i have yelled before. failed at tasks i have failed before.
stood frozen outside of time; listening to the same sounds, the same activities, smelling the same detergent, recognising everything, everything, from before; but this is a different place, and it has different people in it:
and i wish i could stop suggesting to myself that every place is the same, every one of these people are the same,
i have not learned and changed; i, too, am the same.