here's to another attempt to jump start my writing my thoughts out.
i sometimes wonder what had happened to me. there was a time i couldn't wait to get my thoughts out into readable words. i could literally see my posts in my head, obsess on how to break up the sentences, or if in the case of writing poetry, fidget with its cadence and rhyme, but not anymore. not anymore.
my thoughts now play out in scenes, and for some reason, words seem to fail them. they are a bundle of visuals packed with emotions, jumbled insights, fictitious conversations with apparitions half formed by a very confused, distracted, and tired brain. so tired that i can barely construct anything these days.
i chanced upon a video this morning about a forensic cleaner stumbling upon the copious journals of an elderly woman who passed away and whose body was only discovered 6 months after she had died. she lived alone and had no living kin or friends, hence no one even realized she had disappeared. her journals revealed an intelligent mind that lived a rich life, but onto her latter years, lived a life that was incredibly lonely. understandable, i thought. a reality i guess i am slowly entertaining in the back of my mind. i suddenly thought of my mom, how it must feel like to be trapped and slowly loosing your grip. mornings with her, as i struggle to feed her breakfast and witness her first re-acknowledgements of her illness, you see the fear in her expression, the brief panic and then a swell of hopelessness. it's a blessing in a way, her dementia, now. this fright that she feels will just last her a few moments, and then the gravity of her condition will eventually lift as she slowly forgets again and turn her attention to the half eaten breakfast in front of her.
it started with confusion, my mom's dementia. when her thoughts insidiously started to overlap and reality blur and words fell from their description.
i sometimes wonder what had happened to me. there was a time i couldn't wait to get my thoughts out into readable words. i could literally see my posts in my head, obsess on how to break up the sentences, or if in the case of writing poetry, fidget with its cadence and rhyme, but not anymore. not anymore.
my thoughts now play out in scenes, and for some reason, words seem to fail them. they are a bundle of visuals packed with emotions, jumbled insights, fictitious conversations with apparitions half formed by a very confused, distracted, and tired brain. so tired that i can barely construct anything these days.
i chanced upon a video this morning about a forensic cleaner stumbling upon the copious journals of an elderly woman who passed away and whose body was only discovered 6 months after she had died. she lived alone and had no living kin or friends, hence no one even realized she had disappeared. her journals revealed an intelligent mind that lived a rich life, but onto her latter years, lived a life that was incredibly lonely. understandable, i thought. a reality i guess i am slowly entertaining in the back of my mind. i suddenly thought of my mom, how it must feel like to be trapped and slowly loosing your grip. mornings with her, as i struggle to feed her breakfast and witness her first re-acknowledgements of her illness, you see the fear in her expression, the brief panic and then a swell of hopelessness. it's a blessing in a way, her dementia, now. this fright that she feels will just last her a few moments, and then the gravity of her condition will eventually lift as she slowly forgets again and turn her attention to the half eaten breakfast in front of her.
it started with confusion, my mom's dementia. when her thoughts insidiously started to overlap and reality blur and words fell from their description.
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