Selcouth?

I've been here before. Many times. By that logic, this shouldn't be strange or unfamiliar but it is.

This place or state or whatever the hell you want to call it, seems to shift and change in some way shape or form each time.

Where a regular wooden chair once stood, there is either a bare mattress or a torn leather armchair. Each time, something seems so much more different though the air echoes with the past.

Her scent remains, dancing perpetually in front of me. Her scent was never there to uplift me or drive me happily fucking crazy or make me aware of the beauty around me. Her scent is buried so far deep in the past that it has become impossible to retrieve or salvage.

The end delivering a river of tears destroying dams. The end presenting a jungle set ablaze by an endless burning anger. The end with heavy sighing followed by a walk off into the sun. The end with an increasingly numb and confused monkey launched into the darkness of the night.

The same thing. Different. Each time.

It's strange, unfamiliar, and wondrous.

How the hell can the same thing that morphs each time be wondrous?

It morphs each time, revealing something new.

You learn something new every day.