Doubt.

I am supposed to be writing here every day.  And every day, swaddle myself in blankets, drape a snuggie across my shoulders and stare at this blank space until I can't stand it anymore.  No one is reading it.  No one will complain if I do not write.  Yet...

Each day I return to stare at the page, and it mocks me.  It's blankness a constant reminder that I am inadequate, unoriginal.  Nothing pithy or amusing comes to mind.  I stare, and I stare, and I wonder.  I wonder if this is what I want.  To stare at a page day in and day out.

Several pieces of advice suggest that when one is stuck, just write what comes to mind.  This is my attempt.

I lied today.

In an attempt to placate an agitated dementia sufferer, I spun a wild tale about snowmobiling across the wilds of Canada with a group of friends.  I have not been snowmobiling since I was a child, and even then it was merely to tow the neighborhood kids around on sleds.  Once, I turned a corner too sharply and flung one of them into a tree.  That, however, is beside the point.

It did no harm, this little white lie.  I wonder even now if the person will remember it when so much of their vital memories have already slipped away.  The concept makes me...melancholy.

There was an episode of Doctor Who in which a girl named Sally Sparrow stated, "Sad is happy for deep people."

I think of all the moments that took place in that person's life that will never return.  With no pictures or stories, the memories are all that remain.  It's as if with each dying cell, each lost connection, the pieces of themselves slip away.  Their personalities crumble.

It's heartbreaking.