In a small shoe box under my basement stairs sits a map of my life. It’s not an impossible-to-fold highway map, or one of those giant scrolls you’d see a pirate unfurl to point to treasure. It is instead a box full of ticket stubs.
Through these tiny, half-torn slips of paper, we can re-create certain elements of our lives; where we lived, who our friends were, whether we had unfortunate musical taste, and the like. Holding a wrinkled old ticket stub in your hand can transport you to your past self, conjuring memories you had forgotten and reminding you of the person you used to be.
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