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Deja vu is your brain catching up to your memory, a temporary paralysis of your thought process like the spinning wheel of your cursor when the file is too big.

But there are also scientists who believe in cell memory, that our genetic code made be written in such a way that a smell, or picture could bring back the memories of our ancestors. That anything could trigger a memory from the people who walked before us, that their imprint was written in the tiny particles of each and everyone of our cells.

Jim walked slowly through the field, whistling an unfamiliar strain that was a melodious car crash. Fanatic rhythm, frenzied tone. It was a low sound, more from his gut than from his mouth.

The road was gravel and crunched underneath his shoes. It countered his tune, provided an uneasy percussion. Jim was trying to let his cells talk to him, take him away. Instead, his memory seemed to seize and convulse. Not with deja vu, but with sadness.

When he came to solid oak in the pasture, lone except for a few stragly bushes, he parked himself in the shade. It was the first time he had been outside in over a decade. The air felt cool over his skin, the smell crisp like burning leaves. The sun hung low, but large enough to tickle the hairs on the back of his hands.

He felt released.

It was peaceful here. His mouth, his gut quieted. Only the quiet melody of dusk. He stretched out and let himself soak in the sun, soak in the air, soak in nature. There was nothing more elemental, stirring, beautiful than this moment. And he savoured it.

Jim was free.

The room that had trapped him had been a quarter of quarter of a quarter of the stretch of land before him. What once may have seemed small now seemed infinite. Remote, like a past memory. For hindsight isn't really 20/20, Jim knew. No, hindsight was a vision of a cataract, cloudy and reducing the color of blue. So much looking into the past would eventually make you go blind.

He stared really into nowhere, into this great abyss where maybe anything was possible. Or maybe he had been here before. Maybe, in some ways, he had always been here stretched out underneath the solid oak tree in the pasture, the cool breeze tickling his skin, the smell of Autumn harsh in his nose, the low sun fading behind the hills.

And then sighing, he picked up his satchel and headed on.

Waking up from a dream, he stared from the window and felt like he'd been there before.

Learn more about this author, E.D. Cameron.
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