We all keep anthologies. We are living encyclopedias of experience and emotion.
The scars on the cover and binding-torn pages and burnt fibers fraying.
We spend countless hours organizing them, painstakingly arranging them upon shelf after shelf. Inventing new variations on the Dewey Decimal system for which to line the miles of winding labyrinth.
Trying as best we can to organize them by subject, arrange them by topic—trying to discern the difference.
The trauma, the love, the creation, the awe, the fear and the pride.
But what matters more than the collection, is who will be checking out the volumes.