Life is too short and circular for expressions like that. I can remember very well. The bus going back parents' house, or at that time mine. Me crying because life had been too real for me. Five days I had put every hope in, and the same output. Always, the same. Tears, big of tears.
Here I am crying again because I am flying back to parents' house again.
This time, I have this parents' house is even colder.
This time, I have wrinkles proving that life has changed according to its inexorable rhythm.
This time, the setting may be different, but I know pretty well this suffering of mine.
