Blurred Edges Of Reality
My life, I have long since decided, is no different to others.
I am the sum of my upbringing and my lived experiences, all of which can, at best, be considered fickle and at worst, a weird amalgamation of fantasy, desire and avoidance.
With a few shame-faced lies thrown in for good measure.
But do we really remember as much of our past as we think and has what we do remember really shaped us that much?
The blurred edges of our recalled reality merge, frequently, with our self justification. We constantly redefine our words and intentions. We decide how we want others to see us and how we want history to judge us.
And they shape us, these things that might have happened. The stories we repeat and twist and embellish, they grow old and become real and stick there, putting down roots and feeding our minds.
I pause, sometimes, to consciously share them with myself, when and if the time feels right.
And when my mind finds itself on that deliciously unhealthy downward spiral, towards where it has decided it needs to be, then I embrace such thoughts with relish and knowledge, as if they are stories that I brought to life.
And at such times I consider myself weak, unlovable, always invisible and frequently influenced by what may be reality but also, possibly, creations of my own.
Perhaps these things really happened.
But perhaps they didn't, at least not in the way that I remember them.
Maybe my memories have managed to create a life of their own.
In which case, I have to ask myself, what was it that actually shaped me?
