Sol's Inner Vault

I've heard the rumor, the kind that seems too good to be true, so my skeptic antenna pops and pings, very doubtful we could be so lucky.  I've read it in the sacred scriptures of various religions and faiths, most promising the stars, or life everlasting and perfect in nature. I've seen it on occasion, the bliss of a generous moment, the grace of simple kindness and good will. There's no denying charity's power. But, now I have a new word for the idea, a new definition to consider: Pronoia- the belief that the whole universe is conspiring to help you.

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.