BoJack thinks this is depressing. I don’t. Our identities are layered amalgamations of the past. The clippings and the tchotchkes are the physical relics of these experiences. Looking at them reminds me of what I’ve done and who I’ve done it with, a reminder who I’ve been. If I can be proud of what they represent isn’t that the best any of us can hope for?
The way we experience life is anecdotal. We might choose to revisit old events and arbitrarily organize them into some sort of coherent narrative to subdue our own fears of directionless-ness, but that always involves a good deal of artistic license. Therefore, the truest art must be anecdotal as well.