May 25, 2025
Today I went to the supermarket, the same one I have frequented for fifteen years. In the middle of the canned goods aisle, I stopped. For a moment, I did not know where I was or why I was there. The place was strangely familiar, but at the same time, completely alien. I looked at the shopping cart, at the shopping list in my hand, and the words made no sense. "Milk," "bread," "coffee." They were just symbols on a piece of paper. I stood there for so long that an employee came to ask if I needed help. I did not know what to answer. I just mumbled something and left, leaving the cart behind.
I walked home, and the route, which I could do with my eyes closed, seemed new. Every corner was an uncertain decision. Helena found me at the door, confused and scared. She said nothing, just hugged me.
My life is now an archipelago of moments of clarity in an ocean of confusion. I depend on post-it notes scattered around the house to remind me of basic things: "Take medicine at 8 a.m.," "Lunch at noon," "Call your daughter." Without these notes, I float, unanchored in time. Writing in the diary is the only thing that still seems like a ritual to me, a thread that connects me to who I was.
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