Memory is like thin ice in a Spring thaw. It’s easy to break through into the fluid unconscious where there is no truth, only meaning.
Memory’s deceitfulness is evidenced most obviously in court. With the best intentions, people regularly testify to things they didn’t see and confess to crimes they didn’t commit. Criminals later exonerated by DNA evidence were often convicted by eyewitness testimony.
All autobiography is fiction. The act of remembering alters memories and nothing is more often remembered than our own history. The end of a long life offers perspective on a different life than the one lived, an imagined life.
This is my imagined life. I don’t claim it’s truthful, but it is meaningful in the same sense as mythology. It’s my remembered life, my myth.