The life we have before us is both a figment and a fragment of the imagination. At best, we can at any given moment grasp but a shadow (skias) of its meaning and, even then, the very act of grasping instantly distorts and alters it beyond recognition. In this sense, we can say that everyone’s life is a fiction of their own making, that is, that their experience of their life is inevitably formed and mediated through and by means of their imagination. Memory, that most frail and forgiving (and perhaps thereby the most human) of all faculties, is itself a curious mélange of facts fused with phantasy, of convoluted imagery and contradictory ideas ordered and disordered at will and for the sake of merest convenience. And yet it is from that self-same flawed faculty upon which we are obliged to draw, as if from a poisoned well, when we seek to give form and substance to the “reality” that we call ourselves.

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