I just finished a session of trying to take a picture of a moment that's long gone. Isn't that what much of writing is: Waking up the dead or giving life to people who have never existed; capturing a place and time that once was, or might be?
How and what do we even remember? Are there places we fear to tread, or worse: doors through which we categorically refuse to enter? There shouldn't be. Memory is not a safe lined with preservatives to combat time and decomposition. It's an altogether different kind of process, one that is sure to bring fiction into the mixture.
Filling the gaps, not leaving the puzzle undone, requires creativity. It's hard not to reach for facts, absolutes, The Truth, even when those may not have been part of the equation we're so desperate to solve.
So what are you gonna do? Your unflinching best. You have to trust you are doing yourself a favor. And hope you're doing whatever it is you thought you couldn't face justice, even if it's only of the poetic kind.
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