In the hallowed halls of my cardboard kingdom, where binders bulge and boxes burst with over 77,000 Magic: The Gathering cards, a peculiar anxiety grips my soul. Call it irrational, call it downright absurd, but the mere thought of extracting a card from its snug binder home sends shivers down my spine. It's as if my cards have developed a collective agoraphobia, and I, their neurotic custodian, am unwilling to subject them to the cruel world beyond.

To many, deck building is an art form, a creative expression akin to painting or interpretative dance. Masters of the craft assemble decks with the precision of a neurosurgeon, carefully selecting cards from their expensive sets, like a gourmet chef choosing the finest ingredients for an exquisite dish. Yet, here I stand, a collector of potential greatness, a hoarder of epic narratives, unwilling to unleash my cards onto the battlefield.

none shall passYou see, to me, removing a card from its binder feels like tearing out a page from a rare and treasured novel. The narrative of the binder, the carefully arranged chronicles of creatures and spells, loses coherence when a card is absent. It's a disturbance in the force, a hiccup in the grand saga that my collection weaves.

Card Hierarchy and Fears

As each card waits patiently in its binder, there's an unspoken hierarchy at play. Some vie for the penthouse position, the pinnacle of binder real estate, striving to be part of the exclusive club of one-of-every-card collectors. Then there are the common and uncommon playsets, crammed into boxes like commuters in a Japanese train—first in, first out. It's a dark and uncertain place, where cards tremble at the prospect of being ousted, destined for an eBay odyssey or, horror of horrors, a midlife crisis women's "art and craft" project.

But why, you may ask, am I so resolute in my refusal to unleash my cards upon the gaming table? Is it the fear of their potential loss, like children going on a vacation to a special deck, leaving their fellow cards behind, wondering if they'll ever return? Or perhaps it's the concern that the cards left behind will suffer from a peculiar form of jealousy, yearning for the limelight of gameplay?

The Balance of Magic Friendships

Partially, yes. Yet, the deeper truth lies in the delicate balance of maintaining the few Magic friendships I have. You see, in the world of Magic, friendships can be as fragile as a Jace, the Mind Sculptor's loyalty to his controller. One misplaced Black Lotus in a deck, and suddenly you're that guy—the one nobody wants to play against because your deck is fancier than a royal ball gown.

So, my friends, as my cards continue their binder-bound existence, regaling each other with tales of battles they never fought and victories they never won, I remain the custodian of their collective destiny. And fear not, for I shall disdainfully explore the realm of Commander games in a future chronicle, where chaos reigns supreme, and decks are as unpredictable as a toddler on a sugar rush. Until then, may your cards stay snug in their binders, and your friendships survive the perils of deck envy.