When I look back on my life
It’s not that I don’t want to see things exactly as they happened
It’s just that I prefer to remember them in an artistic way
And truthfully the lie of it all is much more honest because
I invented it
Clinical psychology tells us arguably that trauma is the ultimate
killer
Memories are not recycled like atoms and particles in quantum
physics
They can be lost forever
It’s sort of like my past is an unfinished painting
And as the artist of that painting
I must fill in all the ugly holes
And make it beautiful again
It’s not that I’ve been dishonest
It’s just that I loathe reality