This cursed dementia is a wickedly evil teacher, but I've learned plenty. I understand now that everything is truly fragile, these structures of reality we imagine as sturdy pillars. The bureaucracies of identity, our name, birthdate, license image, fingerprint, phone or Social Security numbers, kindred face, favored location- they become like shaky pilings beneath a creaking pier. Hold on to the air, there's little else. What you thought was trustworthy is suspect, most familiar turns to side glance of doubt, afraid to look foolish while asking the questions again and again: Where are we now? My house? What are we doing? What is the plan today? What we take for granted fills in all the empty spaces, it cannot be otherwise, no one could function. Dementia teaches how the world as we feel it is just a patchwork of collective ideas, Interwoven agreements too easily torn into forgotten patterns, lost routines, all that made us who we are, for awhile. ...
When necessary, reread this to remind yourself about what's real. You are not a job, or money, or no money. You're not a car or any other possession. You're not a bank account, bills, or, receipts. You're not anything online, offline, or out of line. You're not just a head full of thoughts and worries. You're not whatever you fear or daydream about. You're not any of these small and transitory things. You are a DNA unique human, aware and conscious, living your life day by day, hour by hour. You are perfectly created by the universe, in spite of your faults. You are a loved member of a family that includes your parents, other relatives, and your family of friends, roommates, neighbors, everyone who values and cares about your well being and person. All the other distractions in the first part are easy to get sucked into, to identify with, to define yourself by, but so inaccurately. You don't need to define anything, you already are defined by your chara...
Motivation is difficult to assess or measure, it can change masks at will. Writing is most certainly a way to tell folks about myself. Simple as that. No matter the subject or the perspective expressed, we want readers to know who we fundamentally are in nature. So, we use a few words to fingerpaint a rendering of ourselves, to leave an impression, a flavor of our personality. Writing is often a revelation of intent, becoming then a voluntary or instinctual reaction to our intrinsic aloneness, our calamity of uniqueness. Existing never before and never again, writing is a way to feel more at home.
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