7:00 p.m. - September 17, 2001
nowhere
Sometimes I think I wouldn't have lied if I'd had something real to tell. Other times I think it's just the way I was born, just my nature, and I would have anyway. Still other times I chastise myself for not having the willpower or the self-assurance to be simply who I was, and the most painful time is when I don't even know if I know what I'm talking about, or thinking about, anymore.

I had a discussion with someone that shall remain nameless, not that it matters. The only person that reads this who knows him will already know who I'm talking about before I start the story, right? Anyway, we got into the whole fabrication issue, and I realized I didn't know what had actually happened to me and what I had said so many times, it just sort of wedged itself in with reality, blended until there was no difference, just the origins. And who remembers origins? All anybody ever knows or cares about is what we are, what anything is, right now. We're that centered around time.

So why am I still thinking about it? Does it matter where the experience originally came from, as long as it's here now? Does it matter whether it came from outside my head or inside my head? What makes the distinction, and who's out there who could tell me, honestly, that it makes a huge difference in their life?

I still feel guilty. And like maybe that's all an excuse I made up to divert the blame from me. "Can't tell the difference between what happened and what didn't," that sounds exactly like something I would say to duck out of something and run away. I still feel like I don't know whether I should be apologizing or justifying. I still feel guilty. And I still feel like I've gotten nowhere.

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