If I walk along a library shelf, I can point out every single book I've ever read there. I remember them all, and little incidences from the stories or places I read them bobble around like bright marbles in my memory bag. The emotions connected with each book return, and I alternately remember a little fear, laughter, the beginnings of philosophical thought, frustration, delight. These are a little of who I am, just tiny pieces of my past, insignifigant, but important. Sometimes though, I see a title, and the memory isn't just another bit. It's like a hot color seeped into me and stained, and how I used to think and feel about things was altered. The way I imagined things at night, my convictions about history, what I found to be humorous was changed. My self was different, a bit older, more afraid or thoughtful. I wouldn't have realized it at the time, but now I do, and wonder if nobody ever wrote and read anything profound, what kind of little world we would have.