spoiled for choice

Years ago, too many to count, when I was a lad of ambition and promise and still warmed the benches at the not entirely obscure high school I attended, I found myself in a confusion that would occur again and again over the years that have passed since then. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself.

As I was about to graduate from high school, I had to decided on college and, this being Germany, on a subject of the ensuing studies. Undeclared wouldn't do, even for the first semester. I had to pick a major. The state helped me out, as he did all seniors of that year, by providing a ominously dark green softcover that professed to contain information on any field of study and on any major available at any university in the entire country. To my knowledge, the book ran to 700 pages – and I went through it.

A sharp pencil in my hand I went through it, crossing out options I felt sure I wouldn't like. Rocket scientist, catholic priest, applied mathematician, or exercise physiologist all faced the ax. Engineering, teaching, performing – all not my cup of tea. In the end, much to my surprise, exactly one field remained. After a year of avoiding the compulsory military service I went to Jena to study biochemistry.

I wish I could say that I haven't looked back, but that's not exactly true. Passion can't be generated from rationally ruling out the impossible, and there have been times when progress has been a slog. I don't deny that it has been a pleasant journey overall, taking me to three different countries, getting me the degree I had pursued, and paying all the bills on the way. But most of the time, the question of why has remained unanswered.

Today, I'm not asking anymore. Instead, I look back and put the blame – if there is blame to be put – squarely onto the excess of options. It wasn't that the green manual was too thick – it was that everything in it sounded plausible and within my reach. I was so confused about the future back then that I even went to see a career counselor, not a common sight back then. When he told me I could do anything, I wished I hadn't wasted a half hour that could have just as well been spent playing football.

I also wish I hadn't wasted the last half hour composing these rambling first five paragraphs. Details of my secondary education and the ramifications of studying a little green book have no bearing on the topic I feel compelled to share today, a topic that came up for discussion at a Chinese dim sum place the other day when one of my friends decided to order the DVD box set of a TV series he liked. His girlfriend, maybe more practically minded, had already taken her smartphone to her favorite file-sharing platform and nearly started leeching bytes when he got all upset. He didn't mind the illegality of the activity, but he felt his memories devalued by downloading. He remembered the days when he saved for a CD and was thrilled when he finally bought it. It got a special place on his shelf. It meant something, and even years later, he'd be able to recall where he bought it and what he felt when he listened to it for the first time on his humble stereo.

This buzz is gone, and so is the meaning. The more you own, the more it averages to grey noise. It is only scarcity that creates excitement while all choice does is breed boredom. With Spotify on the desktop, who is still titillated by music? If I can think of it, I can listen to it, but before I manage to put the name into the search field, I've thought of something else already.

With the world at my fingertips, thanks to a winning combination of passport and dosh, visiting places is down to chance rather than any long held aching. I want to see it all, and the reason I can't is down to time more than anything else. What a difference to when I grew up when all adventurous youth dreamed of Romania, the most exotic destination it might be possible to visit.

The only category where I don't denounce choice is books. I like to see my bookcase full, broken spines recalling hours spent in stimulating company. There is no waste here; I'm returning the books one by one to the charity shop where I bought them. Until then, it's not as if I were spending hours standing in front of it in a contemplative mood, considering the next book to read. Most books on the shelves are read, and the few that aren't form a neat stack on the right side, about chest-high, within easy reach. Time to go back to them before the lights go off.