There is a big old house in my head. It is a bit dusty and worn, but still beautiful. It is vast. Every new experience builds a new room. They are all connected. To get to one I must travel through several. There are no set paths and no clear directions. This construction is how I know and define myself. I am the sum of these events and how I have chosen to process and store them. These “memory rooms” influence how I interpret my world on daily basis. As I age some of these rooms become harder to find or to see clearly. My memory can be weak and certainly is fallible and yet I have always placed immense value on it. These images are symbolic representations of personal formative and/or emotionally loaded events and experiences. The mind cannot possible store all the information it receives. Understanding this makes me question the reality I have built for myself. Is there truth in my truth?