Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory. this really came home to me once i started writing fiction, that memory seemd a kind of fiction, or vice versa. either way, no matter how hard you try to put everything neatly into shape, the context wanders this way and that, until finally the context isn't even there anymore... warm with life, hopeless unstable.
You know, they've got these chocolate assortments, and you like some but you don't like others? and you eat all the ones you like, and the only ones left are the ones you don't like as much? i always think about that when something painful comes up. now i just have to polish these off, and everything'll be ok. life is a box of chocolates. i suppose you could call it a philosophy.