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 psychics, 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 been I am dishonest, it's that I just that I loathe reality.
