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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 is much more honest, because I invented it. Clinical psychology tells us arguably that drama is the ultimate killer. Memories that 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.
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