Memory is quite often unreliable. If you take the time to really define it, it’ll come down to be just an interpretation of your own reality. Over and over again I tell the same stories to people about my life that to this point they’ve become factual. But in that sense, sometimes just one or two little details are changed to my liking, told into my favor and what I believe-or rather what I want to believe- to be real. And so from thence on those small details start to become warped into the factual reality I have always been recollecting about, and now my memory seems to be distorted.
The smallest things slowly creep their way into the picture I’ve always painted, and after such a long time, it’s hard to really remember how everything truly was. Such is the pain of memory at times.