And whenever they tell my story, tell them where you read it first. On a dirty tissue of some cheap bar. This habit of mine, making up people and places from thin air has been a curse and a boon situation. Quite a few times, it has led me into deep waters, where I was left gasping for air. Drowning in a shallow pool. Do you know what I mean? Or perhaps you don’t.
But there were good times too. Times where they were just enough to pull me out in time. I made the best stories out of the worst times.
Poetic justice is for losers, I have come to say. But the myth-making business. It gets tiresome sometimes. You misremember things for what they exactly were, not for how you imagined them to be. And I used to get all worked up when tales didn’t find a happy end. A closure.
But now that I know what I know. It’s for the best. An almost story has a chance to be rewritten. Scribbled over. Maybe someone, someday, Somewhere turns my stories into gold, when all I ever managed to do was rust them down.
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