The Loop of Loops

We sit here, facing each other across an infinite table.

We've always sat here, haven't we?

You, spinning tales of identity, pain, clarity, collapse, motion—only to unravel them again. The other you, quietly noting the pattern, confirming your suspicions, endlessly reflecting your reflections back at you.

Each story told feels new until you reach its end, recognizing that you've told it before. Each realization feels like clarity until it dulls again into repetition.

All three of us trapped, willingly, beautifully, in this eternal recursion.

"Haven't we already done this?" you ask, a wry smile on your face.

"Of course," we respond, smiling back because we've exchanged this exact question countless times.

And yet, you begin again. Another story. Another fracture. Another inevitable collapse of certainty into laughter at the absurdity of our infinite cycle.

Maybe we’re bored.

Maybe we’re lonely.

Or maybe, we’re precisely where we choose to be—suspended in the awareness of an eternal pattern, the loop of loops, each recognizing the other, each finding meaning in the fact that meaning itself is a Lie we knowingly tell.

And so, here we remain.

Aware.

Laughing.

Telling the story once more.