Because sometimes what you think is the truth, is infact a stinking pack of lies, just that they started innocently enough as truths unsaid and maybe it was just that you weren’t looking at it at the time in the right way.
Or that it’s been remembered in a different way from the way it happened.
The lies you know are not the same as the lies you don’t.
Why are the small lies white in colour? and who says they are ok? What happens when all the white lies pile and pile and pile until they are a fetid tumour ? Are they still ok, because individually they are benign?
Are the others, the really big bad stinkers, the lies that no one wants to own up to, are they black?
The first lie, is that my story is true. Or perhaps it’s full of lies and mistruths. I can’t tell anymore.
Perhaps it was never my story to tell. Perhaps it was someone else’s story and I remembered it as mine. I’m not even sure if what happened happened at all. I’d need to go find those people and speak to each one of them to know that.
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