The past is a foreign country
It’s like I had an imaginary friend for the last 16 years and just found out she wasn’t real. All my memories are tainted, suspect. Who knows what was real and what wasn’t?
And I could drive myself nuts trying to figure it out, unearthing bits of evidence — photographs, tickets stubs, and snippets of half-remembered conversations. But what’s the point? At the end of The Sixth Sense, Bruce Willis is still dead; I’m still alive.
How much of the past even matters?
We create our futures moment by moment starting now. Maybe the rest is just illusion, hallucination. Maybe there’s a reason I liked Jacob’s Ladder so much.
Maybe there’s a novel in here or at least a short story.