Recursion

by Blake Crouch

Time is but memory in the making. —VLADIMIR NABOKOV

There are so few things in our existence we can count on to give us the sense of permanence, of the ground beneath our feet. People fail us. Our bodies fail us. We fail ourselves. He’s experienced all of that. But what do you cling to, moment to moment, if memories can simply change. What, then, is real? And if the answer is nothing, where does that leave us?

“Time is an illusion, a construct made out of human memory. There’s no such thing as the past, the present, or the future. It’s all happening now.”

He has wondered lately if that’s all living really is—one long goodbye to those we love.

And he wonders—is déjà vu actually the specter of false timelines that never happened but did, casting their shadows upon reality?