what am i doing here? why does this place feel strangely familiar?

there's the labyrinth where you lose all your sense of direction, except where's up and where's down; the sky and the ground. and then there's the never-sober sentinel that puts its lights of when the clock strikes twelve...

there are the tales of torches being held high for months that aren't suppose to stretch to unimaginably painful years, tales that are told over tuna pies and ice cream sundaes at 3 a.m. after tears have all but dried out. there are tales of saving what's left for what's best, without really knowing if it's yet to come, or it has already passed.

a shiver ran down my spine because i knew i was here before, repeating things that have happened before; learning, re-learning, not learning every past lesson that has no choice but to come back again and again. an image in a hall of mirrors, it is no longer strange if you think you are only a reflection in a mirror...

because with too many completed circles, everyone loses sight of which was the cause, and which was the consequence. soon one becomes a substitute for the other, as everything continues to spiral down into a chaos soup of meaningless chatter.

then there was that attempt of someone to subdue uncertainty and chaos with tongues and definitions one rainy night of flashy lightings, denying a thing's existence by not giving any names to it. not thinking about a thing, not talking about it, with the idea that it will just bury itself into forgetfulness. a face, a memory, an event. to impose serenity by ignoring disorder.

i remember a story of a man, being burnt with too much yearning, attempted to bury the Sun into forgetfulness by turning his back on it, seeking the comfort of his own shadow, only to find that the Sun has stolen his heart out of vengeance for his attempts to forget.

but trapped in a series of ever-repeating circumstances that somehow take form of a tease from the higher powers, there is never a forget, only lapses of judgment. never a trickle out from the cycle, only regret.

whether it be in old or new solar systems, old sounds of thunder on new nights, fresher ice cream, newly-found, newly fixed wings and freedom to fly, even newer avatars of vengeance, it's all the same. confusing cause for consequence, some of us are doomed, or blessed,

t
o
t
r
y
a
g
a
i
n.