The tab graveyard is a love letter.

Chapter 01One hundred and forty seven

There are, at time of writing, one hundred and forty seven tabs open on my phone. A recipe for a pistachio cake I will never bake. A long-read on medieval nuns. A pair of trainers in a size I do not take. A council planning notice for a road I do not live on. Each one is a small monument to a woman who was, briefly, absolutely convinced.

Everyone loves to make a joke about ADHD tab hoarding. But when I scroll through mine, I do not see chaos. I see enthusiasm. I see a person who kept getting interested. Who kept believing there was time.

Every open tab is a version of me who genuinely thought she would get back to it.

Object permanence, as it turns out, is a whole thing. If I close the tab, the interest evaporates. If I bookmark it, the bookmark disappears into a folder that is functionally the Bermuda Triangle. The tab has to stay open, physically visible, or I will forget I ever cared.

Chapter 02A gentler system

I have stopped trying to have tab inbox zero. Instead, once a fortnight, I go through them like an archaeological dig. Most get closed with a small internal thank-you. A few get saved to a single, honest list called things I will probably not do but want to remember I once wanted to. A very small handful actually get done.

The graveyard is not a failure. It is a record of an interested mind. Which is, all things considered, a very good problem to have.