It's
really a wonder,
that I haven't dropped all my ideals, Because they seem so
absurd & impossible to carry out.
Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything, I still
believe people are really good at heart.
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. & truthfully, the lie of it all is much
more honest,
because I invented it. Clinical psychology tells us thattruama is the
ultimate killer. Memories are not recycled like
atoms & particales in
physics, they can be lost forever. It's sort of like, my past
is an
unfinished painting, & as an artist of that painting, I must
fill all the ugly
holes & make it beautiful again. It's not that I've
been dishonest, it's
just that I loathe reality.