The other day, I was reading about a philosophical concept called the "Extended Mind Thesis." Proposed by Andy Clark and David Chalmers, the theory argues that the human mind doesn't stop at the skull. We naturally offload our thinking processes to the environment.  

A notebook, a calculator, or a smartphone isn't just a tool; it is a literal part of our cognitive machinery. According to this theory, we don't just use these things; we think with them.  

It sounded suspiciously, uncomfortably familiar. I looked up at my screen. I currently have 43 tabs open in my browser.

The External Brain (That Needs a Reboot) 

They are squeezed so tightly together that I can no longer see the titles, just a row of microscopic icons that look like the teeth of a very anxious comb. If Clark and Chalmers are right, this isn't clutter. This is my External Memory.  

Tab #1 is my email (stressful). Tab #14 is a recipe for "Authentic Miso Soup" that I opened three weeks ago and will definitely never make because I don't own miso. Tab #32 is an article titled "How to Stop Procrastinating," which I have been procrastinating reading for four days. 

I am not using these tabs. I am carrying them. I don't need to know the recipe for Miso Soup because the browser knows it for me. As long as the tab is open, that knowledge is technically "mine." If I close the tab, I am not just tidying up; I am performing a self-inflicted lobotomy. I am amputating a piece of my external brain.  

This is a very convenient justification. It allows me to frame my chaotic browser as "cognitive expansion." I am not distracted; I am simply distributing my intelligence across a vast, RAM-heavy network. 

The only problem is that while my "Extended Mind" is holding onto 43 complex topics, my actual mind is currently just playing elevator music on a loop. 

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The Flaw in the Architecture 

However, if I really turn back to the theory, a crucial crack appears in my defence. Clark and Chalmers argued that for an external object to truly count as part of the mind, it must be easily accessible, transparent, and trusted. My tabs are none of these things. They are not a library; they are a pile.  

I don't know which tab the article "Stoicism for Beginners" is on; I just know it is buried somewhere between the cat food order and a Google search for "why does my knee click."  

The "Extended Mind" is supposed to be a fluid expansion of intelligence, a seamless integration of biological and digital thought. My browser window, by contrast, is just an anxiety-inducing storage unit where I park thoughts, I am terrified to lose but too exhausted to process. Instead of extending my mind, I have simply extended my worry. 

The Archive of the "Fantasy Self" 

If I am honest, though, I don't keep the tabs open because I need the information. I keep them open because I need the identity they offer. And here is the "Fantasy Me" Series. 

Fantasy Me reads long-form journalism about geopolitical shifts (Tab #4).  

Fantasy Me learns brass jewellery in her spare time (Tab #12).  

Fantasy Me buys sustainable, ethically sourced linen trousers (Tab #28).  

Real Me, meanwhile, is watching a video of a raccoon eating a grape (Tab #43).  

Closing the brass jewellery tab feels like admitting I will never learn it. Closing the article about "10 Morning Habits of Successful CEOs" feels like accepting my fate as a person who hits snooze three times.

The browser window has become a museum of the person I intend to be, eventually, when I have more time. But "eventually" is a dangerous place to live.

The Cat as a Single-Tasker 

And then, inevitably, there is the cat. If my brain is a web browser with too many windows, her brain is a single, maximised tab. When she hunts a toy, she is 100% hunting. When she eats, she is 100% eating. When she sleeps, she is the physical embodiment of "System Shutdown."  

She has no external memory. She has no "open loops." If she chases a fly and misses, she does not sit there for three days worrying about the "Unfinished Fly Project." She forgets it instantly and moves on to the next task: licking her own foot. 

She understands what I am struggling to learn: Completion is peace.  

Yesterday, she walked across my keyboard and stepped on some keys. I gasped. The Miso Soup recipe vanished. For a second, I felt panic. Then, I felt relief. The loop was closed. Not because I finished the task, but because the option was removed. She looked at me with her usual expression of mild judgment. "You were never going to make the soup," her eyes said. "Open a can of tuna. Be realistic."

The Joy of "Close All" 

I looked at the remaining 42 tabs. They weren't tasks. They were guilt. I realised that keeping them open wasn't "saving them for later." I was punishing myself for not being productive enough now. I moved my mouse to the top right corner. I hovered over the X.  

My brain screamed, But what if I need to know the 'Top 5 Skincare Trends of 2025'?? I clicked. The browser went blank. The silence was digital, but it felt physical. The soup was gone. The jewellery course was gone. The linen trousers were gone. And I was still here. Nothing bad happened. The world did not collapse because I forgot to read an article about composting.  

I looked at the cat. She had already fallen asleep. I decided to join her. The internet will still be there tomorrow. The soup, however, can wait forever. 

See you next time. Keep clicking X, 

Asena