What would be the opposite of dementia?
To be the last person to whom the world
Is utterly, insufferably boring and familiar,
While all the rest stumble about perplexed
By the newness, weirdness, and uncertainty
Of everything they perceive, every event
Being another suite of baffling perceptions
For them. For you, it’s all routine, the ritual,
The cycles, the chores, the names. The sun
Comes up when and as you expected, while
The new dawn startles them. The phases
Of the moon circling over your head you know
Like the back of your hand, even as they ask
You what that sliver of light cut from the night
Might mean. You are a stranger in their
Strange land. It’s more than you can stand.
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