Again and again and again.

Like a well-worn loop of film, it never ends. Or it just keeps ending. It just never stops.

"Those who do not learn from the mistakes of the past are doomed to repeat them", or something to that effect. Jesus, that's true.

On May seventeenth, nineteen hundred and ninety-five, I failed to recognize the sign predicting that the left lane would end, and found myself competing with a state trooper for the same eight or nine feet of asphalt. I'd been working for fourteen hours, then immediately set off on a two-hour road trip. I was tired, but heavily caffeinated, excited about my weekend in Greenville, visiting the haunts of my years in college. I saw it coming, and never slowed down. He honked loudly, tearing me from whatever thoughts I was so involved in. I remember few specifics. His tires squealing, my jerking the wheel hard left, and then I was flying, weightless and spinning. And I can still hear PJ Harvey loudly wailing "Down by the Water" from my car stereo. And then pain, but only for a second. It gave way to a tremendous weight, crushing me, pulling me down. I was sinking, falling into a thick, dark, liquid. Unable to breath, clawing for anything to slow my descent.

And sprang upright, screaming. My heart hammering against my chest, hyperventilating, sweating.

"Hey, you alright in there?"

I was in bed, my bed. Staring at the brass rails at the foot. And the desk sitting just beyond that.

"Mike, you awake? You're gonna be late."

And I passed out.

I woke to a knocking at the door, my bedroom door, and my mother's worried questions. I quietly sat up again, placing my feet on the floor. Staring at rail thin legs and a lean emaciated stomach, I felt weak, and hungry. I could feel hair falling on the back of my neck.

"Mike?"

"Yeah, hold on, just a minute." My voice clean and squeaky, like someone I knew a long time ago.

I cried for almost an hour. I was sick, and couldn't go to school.

"Yeah, mom, I'm sure."

I played out endless scenarios that morning. I imagined myself on a respirator, clinging to life. I saw my friends and family crying around the hospital bed. Or I was wrapped in fabric, screaming alone in a cell in an institution. Or I was dead, and things hadn't turned out that well.

Hours passed, and the realization wasn't dramatic. There was no tense scene of awe and discovery. I waited for the next event in the madness, and it never came. Time just kept ticking away, and I was still somewhere I couldn't possibly be, waiting.

I checked around the room, turned on the television, listened to the radio. It was May twenty-first, 1986. I had just turned seventeen. I was a senior in high school. I was still a virgin. I had no money, no license to drive.

But I was alive. I had been given a second chance. I didn't have to screw it all to hell and back, not this time.

Jesus, I was a fool.

Whether chained to a rock with a vulture at my liver, or pushing that same rock up a never-ending slope, I was trapped. I would find a way to fuck it up.

It's March 4th, 1990. I've managed to avoid my most embarrassing moments, and invent a few new ones. But like a candle to a flame, I'm drawn to the fire. Lost in this old world, seeing it again through a stranger's eyes. I'm drawn to relive the moments, the special moments, that define me.

I'm playing air hockey with a buddy, Tim, swilling beer and enjoying a cigarette through a fresh set of lungs. Passing time, waiting for lady destiny to play her cards.

I control the air-hockey table, taking all comers for free games and the occasional beer. Waiting for Sue and Michelle take their seats at the bar. Even though I know it's coming, Tim still sees them first.

In my mind's eye, like an out-of-focus scene filmed through silk screens and filters, I can still see it. Deep long lost memories of the "real world", snapped into shocking clarity by my surroundings. He’s about to approach Sue, engaging her in the innocent, clumsy conversation that served him so well. We'll leave together for a party, where Sue and Michelle will find a way to talk privately. Sue will then take me aside, let me know that she, in no uncertain terms, would rather prefer to spend the evening chatting with me, and maybe we should let Tim and Michelle have some time alone. And so on.

But "now", I have no patience.

I meet her stare, and hold it. Neither of us smiles. Neither looks away. I walk deliberately towards her, never breaking eye contact.

I stand beside Tim, still rolling through the rhythm of his pickup spiel.

I say "Need a light?" and she looks at me with a smile that says it's about goddamn time, but says "I need a smoke and a light". Vital, beautiful and genuinely alive; almond eyes, a smile that grabs and twist hard, fire and ice and guaranteed steam.

And I look at her, and it's the first time all over again. Five nine, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, dirty blond crimped hair just past shoulder length. A body to die for, but the smile is enough to make you want to kill to keep her.

I'm so fucking alive I feel my heart pounding, feel the adrenaline rush, the testosterone surge to take what's ready to be taken. I drag hard on my Camel, sip my beer, and read from a script long since written. We play the game. Strong, hard body raging against mine. Passion and desire and heat, nails clawing down my back, frenzied sweat and lust.

Days in her embrace, then weeks. And it's different, it lasts longer, but it still doesn't work out.

Without ceremony, she ends it.

And on and on and on, the tale changes but the story remains the same.

I've lived my life over, better and worse. And I see it, like Copernicus gazing at Mars, I recognize the cage surrounding me. The boulder will never reach the top of the hill.

I've lived my life over, but failed to truly live.

On May seventeenth, nineteen hundred and ninety-five, I find myself competing with a state trooper for the same eight or nine feet of asphalt. I'm tired, but heavily caffeinated, excited about my weekend in Greenville, visiting the haunts of my years in college. I see it coming, and never slow down.

I'm sinking, falling into a thick, dark, liquid, unable to breath.

And I'm awake. Lying in bed, sweating the summer heat. It's light outside, but not quite six in the morning. The clock stares at me, waiting. When it's time, I let it ring, then turn it off and lie there. Eventually a woman, too young and hopeful to be my mother, walks in, urging me to get going. I lie, sick, the stomach flu, whatever it takes. She leaves for work, I stay in bed. I watch the news, read the paper. It's nineteen eighty-six.

And I choose...I choose not to play this game.

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