Much of what I say is true. Here I am, trying to sum up a period of my life where I understood very little, where I’d like to believe I grew up, where I’d like to believe I learned a lot. All within the structure of a week-long vacation, recalled years after the fact. So much of what I will say is true. More of it is remembered. For those involved, it would make me sad, make me shake my head, if this past, my dreamlike memories, became the accepted version. But I can no longer separate the truth from the fiction. So why does it matter?
This story is better than the truth anyway.
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