Sometimes I’ll look at my browser and realize I have seventeen tabs open — none of which I’m actually reading. A mix of articles, documentation, a YouTube video paused at 1:42, some half-filled Google Form I don’t remember starting.
I’ll think, “I should close these.” But I never do. Because somehow, they feel like an extension of my brain.
Tabs are tiny versions of hope. Each one says, I might come back to this. It’s a digital version of leaving a book open on the table or scribbling a note in the margin. They’re proof of curiosity, even if that curiosity never gets finished.
Sometimes I’ll do a “tab cleanse,” closing everything and promising to start fresh. It always feels nice — for about ten minutes. Then the tabs start multiplying again, like thought fragments I haven’t sorted yet.
I think that’s fine, though. The web was never meant to be tidy. It’s supposed to be a little chaotic, like a desk full of ideas mid-construction. My tabs aren’t clutter — they’re evidence of attention, scattered but alive.