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I recently read an article entitled ‘If I Ever Lose My Mind,’ and it discusses dementia, and this woman’s joking request to be smothered with a pillow should she ever reach such a state in her life. Quite an endearing piece and yet quite sobering at the same time. I have often thought of my own state of mind, at many stages of my life, and I am still young, by many standards. And yet, dementia can hit at any age, so to think that it will not catch up to me is a fallacy.

I read with great relish the stories of such awe-inspiring psychologists as Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, B.W. Watson, and B. F. Skinner and their many attributes and accomplishments. But these men also had their flaws and their vices, and many also succumbed to dementia or Alzheimer’s, or some other ailment that took from them their great manner of thinking. So, too, the matter of great writers, and poets, and other artists and the like.
It has often been said that many great writers had (or have); some form of mental illness, whether it is dementia or Alzheimer’s. This instills a slight moment of fear, but an even greater moment of defiance. Perhaps even a denial of sorts. I cannot fathom losing such creativeness. A gift I have been given, to be stolen, to be pulled from my grasp, slipped through my fingers, as I watch it slowly float away, helpless to do anything about it? No, I cannot, no will not, accept that reality. Instead I will take this piece of artistic beauty and I will share it. I will paint it upon the tapestry set before me, in whatever form seems fitting. It will present itself in due time, and if not, then I will make a way. The world will see the art of this mind, for it is not meant to be hidden, to be unused, hidden away, left forgotten, gathering dust upon the shelves of my psyche until time takes over and illness sets in, locking the door forever.

No, it will be shared. It will be known. It will be given life. It will be loosed and set upon the world.

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