The Paralysis of the Paper Aisle
Your feet stop moving. You’re in the paper aisle. You came here for ‘a sketchbook,’ a simple enough directive, something a child could accomplish. But now you’re facing a wall of meticulously organized rectangles, a silent testament to human ingenuity and a monument to your own indecision. There are 238 distinct options. Cold press, hot press, rough. 98 lb, 138 lb, 300 lb. Wire-bound, glue-bound, perfect-bound. A man in an apron who smells faintly of turpentine and impatience asks if you need help, and you want to tell him you need a philosopher, not a sales associate. The mission was simple. The reality is a low-grade hum of anxiety that starts behind your eyes. You came to a place designed to unleash creativity and all you feel is the opposite, a slow-motion paralysis.
238 distinct options. A monument to indecision.
This isn’t just about art supplies. This is the background radiation of modern life. It’s the two hours spent scrolling through streaming services only to rewatch a show you’ve already seen 8 times. It’s the menu with 48 appetizers that makes you just order the fries. We’ve been sold a grand narrative that freedom is synonymous with endless options. More is better. The ability to choose anything is the ultimate expression of self. But standing in that paper aisle, you feel the profound dishonesty of that promise. Choice hasn’t become a freedom; it’s become a