Being Honest With Fiction

I know that maybe I say this too much. Or maybe I say too much period, and this is what causes distance between me and those who I wished were closer.I know that I often talk about going back to the beginning. But this is where I am . . .I talk about the beginning so that I can turn back and start. Or maybe this is the only way I can clear my history and hit the reset button. Perhaps this is why I was told memories are not always my friend.or memory is a liar.I was told that too. In the beginning, there was no yesterday.My list of regrets was far shorter than my list of demands.In the beginning, I can see why and how both lists grew in different directions.There were no scars in the beginning. There were lies or tiny abrasions or war wounds or parts of me that were sore or tender to the touch.I was untouched in the beginning. I was unbothered, clear, and unmolested too, because the beginning was clear and clean, like sky during early summer mornings at the birth of July.No clouds.…