It feels awkward, suspicious to be someone of few opinions.
Ever so slightly so that it barely matters
My Grandma has Dementia, but somehow that’s done nothing for my own memory.
They just watched us get darker and darker, welcoming in the deeper glow, disgusted. But what could they do?
Reflections from aged 22 on the eve of 23.
It is just a feeling. But why do I do that with feelings? Feelings are not always thoughts, not always stories. They’re felt, sometimes that is all.
A leaf out of my book and that of anyone who is tired
This new fun has cast a dead white sky over my life.
A personal essay type-thing (while I work on an actual story) on boring fun. Trigger warning: I use the word fun 27 times.
Having Dementia in the house carries with it an onslaught of inside jokes.