Of all the things we are, all the actions we accomplish, the evil we predictably commit, the good we occasionally manage, at end there is but one thing left, a bolt of tattered memories. Those recollections are beyond our control, depend upon the whims of others, with no real basis in truth, presented through conjecture and supposition, sometimes honored, occasionally detested, but more often than not simply excised, laundered away by the cleansing whirlpool that is onward rushing time.
Some would have us believe that history is fixed, that circumstances, events, cannot be altered, changed, rearranged, or sanitized once they are concluded. Such a supposition is of course foolish, nothing, even when carved into the face of a marble slab, is beyond transformation. No object, no fact, nothing is finite, even our very language is belabored with constant revision.
What did you do today worthy of recall, suited to translation into fable, delineating as myth? As for me, I have nothing!