All My Many Lives

I collect adventures. I see heroes complete their heroic deeds, and when they're done, they give them to me. The adventures become mine.

I put them on little shelves.

I collect thoughts. Bold thoughts. Rational as well as irrational. Worries and reassurances turn into ink, find a home on my shelves, and are admired.

I collect pain. Pain from wounds, illnesses, deaths, betrayals, and worse. Torture is tucked away, slotted alongside hatred and revenge.

I collect joy. I collect the brief smiles shared during warm sunsets. I collect the trust of friends. The brightness of a kind touch. Every sigh of relief finds a way into my collection--every tear from every overwhelmed eye wet the ink.

I collect people. I collect what really matters about us, all of us. The feelings, the actions, the passions and ambitions of men and women through the ages.

I collect worlds. Fiery mountains, peaceful plains and peoples. Lands blackened by war, planets shattered by gods, water covered utopias and empty, sand filled deserts line my shelves. In each world I find parts of my own.

They all sit safe and dry under my roof.

I collect stories. Stories of humans, elves, monsters both mechanical and conscious. Stories of villains and heroes, traitors and mediators. Hunters and their prey, weak men and their triumphs. I collect lives. I see myself in these strangers and learn from the magical, flawed, exciting things they see. We experience a world together, and when the last page turns, I set it on my shelf with all the other ones.

All my books. All my worlds and feelings and people.

All my many lives.

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