I invented my childhood. Then, likewise into adulthood until the facts of my life caused my mythic dirigible to perish in flame, year upon year.
Still, there is some truth to the stories we invent, even if only of the personal kind. Lies are among the most creative activities we engage in. It is a wonder that so many treat the act with such impoverished disdain.
I enjoy the fabrications when at the onset of drinking. Those first few glassfuls can contain - or is it release? - a glorious yet ignoble freeing of the imagination, even when mine takes flight in a too familiar direction. It is the next day when the myths most often meet their reckoning. Lie meets lie, lying in bed.
I invent elaborate unspoken apologies for those I've wronged, then enjoy the shame I am obligated to feel.
It is all a part of the act - my morning soliloquy.
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