The circularity of life.

If life seems repetitive and anticlimactic, just think of it this way: it is. I've noticed in my millennia upon this earth that nearly everything turns out to be cyclical except the bookends of birth and death, and we just don't know about those because we're inside that particular system with no outer vantage point. I can't tell you how old I feel sometimes and how old the past is, and that's just my own past, which as I've stated goes just back to the height of Rome and no further. But even if we consider, say, the last oh, 30 years of it, it still seems old enough to make dead grandparents cry in their graves. I remember thinking foggy ages ago that I'd seen it all, that the past then was practically precambrian. We repeat crushes, loves, heartbreaks, interviews, goodbye parties, seeing bands, seeing movies, seeing people cross the street. Eating. Taking your millionth shower. Driving to work on a cold morning hoping the heat begins to work soon, getting there without remembering the drive. Rinse, repeat. Repeat, recycle. Bicycles along a country lane, planes forever landing and Europeans clapping, not being able to crap, ending up drunk on someone's landing. Poems composed in confinement, comprised of refinements, disposed of by mistake. The endless process of makeovers we call upgrades to ourselves as we age. The dead, long past. It's always there and always growing. How can we move on?