Cyril loved his postcards. He collected one everywhere he went.
Whether it was a new country, or just a city over, Cyril made sure to pick up a postcard commemorating the trip. He had boxes full of them, categorized chronologically. Every once in a while, he would look through a box, remembering the trips he had taken and what he had seen, and how much he had enjoyed himself.
The problem, as with so many problems for collectors, was that his family knew of his love of postcards. They subsequently gave him postcards every Christmas and birthday, and on any other occasion necessitating gift-giving.
Cyril always thanked them. He smiled, looked through the new additions, then set them to the side. When he went home, he pulled out the box specially set aside, and placed the postcards in it.
To Cyril, though, they weren’t authentic. Not a memento of where he had gone, but rather something given as a means of connection. Sure, it was nice that people had paid attention his interests and desires. But postcards were a keepsake, a way for him to look back and remember, to smile at the things he had seen, to laugh at the stories he had tracking that particular postcard down. He loved his own postcards, but the ones given as gifts were kept only out of kindness to family and friends, not out of any particular desire for the cards themselves.
They languished in a box, added to once in a while, and eventually, Cyril knew, he would need to cull them, to make room for the further ones that would come.