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“All of this has happened before and all of this will happen again.”

-Peter Pan/Battlestar Galactica

            I don’t have many moments of peace, these days. I don’t have many instances during the sixteen-some-odd waking hours of my life that I can just lie down on my bed and just listen to the whir of the air conditioner unit above me, my heavy, hot breaths causing its internal thermostat to climb up and up and up and up.

            Tonight is one of these nights of silence. My roommate is gone for the evening and I have the room to myself. No music is on. No TV shows are quasi-legally streaming on my computer. There is nothing here except me, a bottle of tepid water, and the words of the past week.

            Over the past hour of just writing, I have noticed myself becoming repetitive. Over the past hours of just writing, I have notice myself becoming repetitive. Stories are being retold. Empty rooms, my father’s old possessions, my books have become motifs in the Roman numeral chapters of my life, stressing that, yes, of course, these repetitions repetitions are purposeful and meaningful.

            Aren’t they?