I am going through a continual déjà vu - everything has happened before, everything is happening again. Have I been here already? Lived it already? Lived in layers upon layers, as if the time never passed?
And then, more importantly, what does it leave me with? What can I then possibly write that I have not possibly written before? Is there a new emotion left somewhere or have I exhausted them all?
All of this reminds me of Nietzsche's Eternal Recurrence. And how much I want to read all of him.
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