IT WAS ONCE SO CLEAR TO ME
My father's descent into dementia started some five years ago. Watching a warm and intelligent man gradually lose his mental and social faculties, I found myself exploring the notion of human consciousness, the vagaries of personal memory, how our faculties are so variable person to person. And so fragile. "Everything you can imagine is real" [... Picasso] perhaps we each live in our own bubbles of reality. Everything that once seemed so clear to me suddenly became nought. How do we really know who we are? How can we really know someone else? And what if we are all just simulations in something's imagination? And what if there's a glitch somewhere? What becomes of each of us?