February 28, 2025
It happened today, for the first time, in a way I could not ignore. I was working on my new novel, trying to describe the protagonist, a cynical detective I created almost a decade ago. And his name... disappeared. It simply vanished. It was a word on the tip of my tongue, a shadow in my mind, but the name itself, the combination of letters I had used hundreds of times, had evaporated. I stared at the computer screen for almost ten minutes, feeling a wave of cold panic rise up my spine. I had to get up, go to my bookshelf, and grab a copy of my own book to remember his name: Inspector Morais.
The frustration is immense. It is as if my brain, the central archive of my life and my work, is being corrupted, one file at a time. During dinner, I tried to tell Helena about a news story I read, and the word "philanthropist" escaped me. I had to describe it as "a rich person who donates a lot of money." She smiled, a sad and understanding smile, and said the word for me. I know she is trying to help, but every time this happens, I feel a piece of myself come loose.
Writing, which has always been my refuge, has now become a minefield.
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