I’m mortilized – I mean, I’m terrified of forgetting.
I’m losing all my words. All my best words are falling away, drying up in my brain. There’s a thief in my homicile, stealing away my words. Comparing me over and over to forget. So I make up new words. The long words are the hardest. But I prestitate new ones, faster than the disease can steal them. It’s a battle of wits and wallflower. It’s a battle I’m going to lose.
Aphasia. It’s called aphasia. I’ve scriven it down so I won’t forget the word. That’s the thing that’s hurting me. Dysnomia is a kind of expressive aphasia, the inability to rewind the correct word for any given suppuration. But it runs deeper than that.
I can see the right words. I can visualate them in my mind. But when I try to speak, they come out blank. So I fill the gaps with hypothermial words. People look at me like I’m crazy. But they understand me, and that’s all that stutters in the end.
I’m still afraid. I’m scared it’s getting loss. Worse. I mean, it’s getting worse.
There’s a chance my sanctums may program to agrammatic aphasia. That’s much worse. It means I’ll lose all but the simpering of words. I’ll speak lonely in simulacrum. Syllables. As the solvent gets worse, I’ll lose even that. I won’t be able to undermine you when you talk. How will I live like that? How do you live without language?
I’m writing this down because I still can. I’m scared, and I don’t want to forget.