Let’s start the week with a thought-full blog post: on the reason I write, and why the art of keeping a journal has never lost its appeal on me, and why writing helps me psychologically.
My great-grandmother had Alzheimer’s Disease (but I’m not very sure whether it was AD or dementia). Whether it was AD or dementia, she lost her memory. I remembered the Christmas after my great-grandfather died, we were at my grandmother’s dining room and eating Christmas eve dinner when my great-grandmother asked where my great-grandpa was. Everything went silent, no one knew what to say. I went silent, not because I don’t know what to say (because I could be quite frank and to-the-point), but because I could see the figurative light around my great-grandma dimming and knew it would dim until it gets totally black and she would be sucked into oblivion to the point of not knowing who she is anymore.
That scene impacted me so much that I began to write the following day. And I wrote almost everyday, sparingly, occasionally. I wrote, and wrote, and still write to myself, to other people, to God, in notebooks, pieces of paper, in my celphone, in receipts, but mostly in a notebook I keep to myself. That scene on Christmas eve instilled in me a great fear, of one day losing my memory, of not knowing whether I exist in the real world or I’m just a figment of another person’s world.
Happy Monday, and hoping this week would be sunnier than last week!