Personally. . .

When wondering what materials I wanted to work with in my "career", I thought along the lines of some gloriously pigmented scratch-goo; papers and syrupy paint; wire; fire; decibles, perhaps. The very furthest materials from my mind were plastic, excrement, adult rash ointment, chocolate smelling lotion, pollygrip. I mean, that's still the case, but I've been working with extremely old people lately as part of a class I'm taking. This is an experience that forces me to picture the childhood and adult versions of these stick figures who now need feeding and bathing and compare those ghosts to my current self. Simultaneously, quietly, hesitatingly, it's pushing the question: will my mind someday turn traitor and leave me with only a whistle and a moan? My body Benedict Arnolding me, becoming tiny, shriveled, creaking audibly? No. I suppose not. I mean, I really can't imagine it. I'm sure not.
Many are so confused I have to wonder what reality they are seeing and reacting to. It's certainly different that mine, which may or may not be correct. I only wish they could make the best of altered reality. Maybe that's the whole shame.
When I leave the facility, I look around at people on the street, in the grocery store—there are actual babies out there—and I'm screaming in my mind, "LOOK AT HOW YOUNG AND VERILE WE ARE!! WE'RE ABSOLUTELY DAZZLING!"