When I moved out, I had all of my paper stuff in a broken two-drawer filing cabinet. Since the filing cabinet was broken, I decided to throw it in the trash. Then I transferred all of my paper stuff into a large, clear plastic container with a lid.
This is a highly organized bunch of papers, mind you, separated into folders, binders, notebooks, and etc. I’ve spent hours and hours organizing it at different times of my life. Some of its chronological. Some of it is thematic. All of it is organized in some way, even if it isn’t sure which way that is.
And what does this box contain?
Notebooks full of lists. Notes from classes. Every single college paper I wrote, except a few I found worthless. A large rubber band full of notes and information about John Stuart Mill. The novel I started in junior high. Pages ripped out from notebooks. Copied essays hole punched and stuck into binders.
The box contains almost everything I’ve every written and almost everything I’ve ever learned about in school, from junior high on.
The box, in short, contains my life. Full breathing, and real–it’s all there, and it’s somewhat frightening to look through it because of how much of me there is scattered through the highly organized papers.