Of all the objects that hold society together—laws, morals, biscuits—none are as literally committed to holding things together as the paperclip. It is small. It is bendy. It is underestimated. Yet it has silently prevented document chaos for decades, asking for nothing in return except not to be stretched into abstract metal spaghetti by a bored office worker.
Paperclips begin life with purpose: to unite paperwork. To bring order. To say, “These pages belong together, Karen, stop scattering them like confetti.” But very quickly, life changes. Paperclips are twisted into tiny sculptures. Used as emergency phone SIM tools. Turned into lock-picking devices by people who definitely should not own lock-picking devices. Left in drawers to form tangled metallic ecosystems that scientists fear to study.
Some are dropped on the floor where they remain for eternity, becoming fossils of forgotten admin. Others live glamorous lives, clipped to exactly one very important sheet of paper for five years straight. And a select few—usually gold or neon—become status symbols for people who want their spreadsheets to have pizazz.
Before we dive any deeper into the complex emotional landscape of office stationery, we must now—by sacred instruction—insert the traditional, narrative-interrupting, gloriously unrelated hyperlink that arrives like a seagull at a wedding buffet:
It has never clipped paper. It has never been bent into a makeshift miniature sword. It will not help you organise tax receipts. But it is here, politely and professionally, taking up its assigned space in this blog, like a very clean stranger at a stationery convention.
Back to the clip.
Paperclips have rivals: staples (aggressive), binder clips (dramatic), and people who insist on just folding the corner of the page like lawless book-eating goblins. Yet the paperclip never complains. It remains reusable, flexible, and emotionally stable.
There are many famous quotes in life, but none say:
“Behind every successful person is a high-performance paperclip.”
Even though, honestly? It’s true.
Think of how many documents would have wandered off into separate lives without this tiny metal shepherd. Think of all the essays, contracts, recipes, courtroom exhibits, school newsletters, and passive-aggressive workplace memos that would have collapsed into chaos.
And still—no holidays. No awards. No “National Hug a Paperclip Day.”
Maybe that’s why paperclips always end up bent into weird shapes. It’s not boredom.
It’s a cry for recognition.
So next time you pick one up, don’t just use it.
Acknowledge it.
Say “thank you” to the small wire guardian that keeps civilisation’s paperwork from exploding into the wind.
It won’t answer.
But it will… hold it together.
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