William described painting as his life for as far as he can remember.

An aspiring painter, William devoted most of his time in front of a canvas or a sketchbook, in his hands a brush and palette. He dreamed of becoming a world-renowned painter, the pioneer of 21st century arts. Day and night, he toyed with the paintbrush, experimenting with different strokes, enhancing his own style. Everyday, he strived to achieve his ambition. Slowly, his works started to gain fame. Local painters began approaching him. Every time they see his masterpieces, they couldn't help but admire. There was really something in his paintings; something that makes them stand out. If you ask people who saw his works, they would often comment that "they could see the entirety of his soul in a single picture, as if it was his whole life."

He would be then described by critics as "Picasso of the 21st century."

As more and more artists recognized him as a skilled artist, slowly, William started losing recognition of everything around him. He would often ask questions, only to ask it again a few minutes later.

"What time is it?" William asked.

"You just asked five minutes ago," his wife, Patricia, replied as she sighed and glanced at the wall clock. "It's 4:20 PM."

Over the passage of time, those five minutes would turn into three. Then two. Then one. Despite this, William kept painting and painting, though for the first time, something seemed peculiar about him, both in front and out of the canvas.

In front of the canvas, he would often look confused. He seemed aware at times that flaws had crept into his work, but he could not figure out how to correct them. He would often ask his wife about her feedback on his paintings, if the choice of color was great and all that. But whenever she pointed out something --- whether there's something out of place or there's an imbalance of warm and cool colors --- he'd never apply her advice, as if he'd forgotten about it.

When he's not in front of the canvas, it was usual for William to converse with his wife. Often, he would say something, but stop mid-sentence and forget what he was about to say. And more often than not, he would forget that he just had a conversation with her. Finally, at one point, he had forgotten that Patricia was his wife.

Although he's already forgetting everything around him, he didn't stop drawing. He began working on a series of self-portraits, which showed his inability to figure out flaws, loss of judgment and reasoning, and forgetfulness. Compared to his self-portrait long ago, which was skillfully drawn with precise detail and anatomy, his series of portraits was one reflective of his struggle to keep up with everything around him. His loss of memory reflected on missing details. His loss of focus reflected on uneven coloring. And his loss of judgment reflected on distorted proportions. The artist's self-portraits grimly illustrated his struggle to keep up with his sense of identity, which he had been losing overtime.

But even though he is losing grasp of who he was, he never forgot what he was --- an artist, who used the world of art as means to explain himself, to explore his self-reflection, to express his soul in a single picture as if it was his whole life. It looked like nothing was going to stop him from his passion, not even the fact that his world was tilting, that his own perspective was flattening, and the fact that he could no longer appreciate every detail like he used to.

And then came the inevitable.

His loss of memory was no longer just a loss of his identity. William lost his psyche --- he forgot how to paint, how to eat, how to live. The emotional turmoil of watching the mind slip away bit by bit turned him to someone clueless. He could no longer recognize his own works --- not even his self-portraits --- which documented with heart-breaking intensity William's efforts to explain his altered self that he didn't know he turned into.

William was finally admitted to a nursing home, where he spent the rest of his days not knowing that he was once someone whom people admired. From that point on in his life, he could no longer remember himself, nor express himself. He could only wake up everyday without a purpose, no future to look forward to, and no memories to cherish. His dream of becoming the next Picasso --- the dream that defined his identity -- was crushed brutally. He could only endure the pain of not knowing what defined him, who loved him, or where he belonged.

In a way, he died even before his death seven years later, all because of a disease that took everything he had from him bit by bit. And there was nothing he could do, for it was incurable and irreversible --- the saddest truth about people with Alzheimer's.

* * * * *

This was written for a school groupwork. I wrote it, but one of my classmates also helped edit this so thanks lel

This is also based on a true story.

That's it from me, everyone!

_Quill