For a creative writer possession of the ‘truth’ is less important than emotional sincerity.

He needed to figure out how he felt. Every story revolves around some central concept of the human condition, and his life was a story. Moreover, it was a story he intended to tell.
It began simply enough; writing made sense. Life didn’t. Why not put them in a room, let them duke it out?
He would record his life, transformed into a hero’s journey. By turning himself into a character and letting the character lead the story he’d figure out where to go simply by examining where he’d been. All he needed now was the epiphany, but it wasn’t coming. He needed to have a theme. He had a motivation, a simple desire really. He was a guy, desiring a girl. Timeless.
Plot dances around the concept, truth raveling and unraveling, until something is revealed. Something greater than historical accuracy; emotional truth. He had finally begun to understand himself, but he wasn’t done. He didn’t have a theme.

He was still trapped.