A man ought to find fear when he stops having De ja vu. You see, time folds the way you fold a towel or a bedsheet. It collapses upon itself over and over again, condensing to the point where memory can bleed with what is happening and what is going to happen. In these folds a person can believe he’s been somewhere before, though he’s never been. In these folds a person can see a bit of themselves in the future.
But when you fold something imperfect there is always a bit left over. There might be a little bit of fabric left–not enough to make it to the crease. It’s that space, I guess, when a man can no longer see the crease–can no longer experience De ja vu–when you know your time is close to running out.
So you ought to be scared. You ought to worry and take note of those last few days/weeks/years you have left of living. You see, nobody knows how wide those folds are. Nobody knows how much space lives between the creases. I used to think it was a year, maybe two. I used to feel like that de ja vu came over and over again. I’d feel it when I was walking down the street, minding my own. I’d feel it and I’d find a comfort in it, knowing I’d be doing something like this again.
It stopped for me two year ago. I know, because that last one done come round finally. I was in a Walmart–what people back in the day called a 5 and dime. I grabbed a package of soap off the shelf and remembered doing that same thing before. Only this wasn’t no memory. I was feeling the other end of de ja vu I’d had two years prior. Felt like hearing the crack of a rifle long after you’d seen the puff of smoke letting you know it went off or thunder trailing behind lightning like a fat kid red faced and sweating to keep up.
Once I felt that memory slide into me I realized I hadn’t felt anything like that since two years prior. I knew then I didn’t have no creases left. So now I wait and I wonder and I hope I’m ready when my time runs out.