Two nights ago, I deleted everything.

Every note in Obsidian. Every half-baked atomic thought, every Zettelkasten slip, every carefully linked concept map. I deleted every Apple Note I’d synced since 2015. Every quote I’d ever highlighted. Every to-do list from every productivity system I’d ever borrowed, broken, or bastardized. Gone. Erased in seconds.

What followed: Relief.

And a comforting silence where the noise used to be.

For years, I had been building what technologists and lifehackers call a “second brain.” The premise: capture everything, forget nothing. Store your thinking in a networked archive so vast and recursive it can answer questions before you know to ask them. It promises clarity, control, mental leverage etc.

But over time, my second brain became a mausoleum. A dusty collection of old selves, old interests, old compulsions, piled on top of each other like geological strata. Instead of accelerating my thinking, it began to replace it. Instead of aiding memory, it froze my curiosity into static categories.

And so…

Well, I killed the whole thing.

I’ve been sober for six years now, and that kind of milestone does something to your perception of time. It creates a before and an after, and it invites you  -  forces you  -  to take stock. 

A few weeks ago, looking back on my sobriety journey, I started digging through my archives, scrolling through old notes, old goals, old mental frameworks I used to treat like gospel. Systems layered on systems. Promises I had made to my future self, as if that self were an operating system waiting for updates.

Reading through these fragments, I felt a tightening in my chest.

A deep sense of sadness. 

Almost an existential lag.  

I could see how each iteration of my self was trying so bloody earnestly to build a roadmap to something better. But what got me sober, what got me through the first one, two, three hard years  -  none of it was in those notes.

It hit me: what got me here won’t get me where I need to be next.

The modern PKM (Personal Knowledge Management) movement traces its roots through para-academic obsessions with systems theory, Luhmann’s Zettelkasten, and the Silicon Valley mythology of productivity as life. Roam Research turned bidirectional links into a cult. Obsidian let the cult go off-grid. 

The lore deepened. 

You were building a lattice of meaning. 

A library Borges might envy.

But Borges understood the cost of total systems. In “The Library of Babel,” he imagined an infinite library containing every possible book. Among its volumes are both perfect truth and perfect gibberish. The inhabitants of the library, cursed to wander it forever, descend into despair, madness, and nihilism. The map swallows the territory.

PKM systems promise coherence, but they deliver abstracted confusion. The more I wrote into my vault, the less I felt. A quote would spark an insight, I’d clip it, tag it, link it  -  and move on. But the insight was never lived  -  it was just stored. Like food vacuum-sealed and never eaten, while any nutritional value slips away.

Worse, the architecture began to shape my attention. I started reading to extract. Listening to summarize. Thinking in formats I could file. Every experience became fodder. 

I stopped wondering and started processing.

The “second brain” metaphor is both ambitious and (to a degree) biologically absurd. Human memory is not an archive. It is associative, embodied, contextual, emotional. We don’t think in folders. We don’t retrieve meaning through backlinks. Our minds are improvisational. 

They forget on purpose.

Merlin Donald, in his theory of cognitive evolution, argues that human intelligence emerged from external symbolic representation: tools like language, gesture, and writing that allowed us to rehearse, share, and restructure thought. Culture became a collective memory system.

In trying to remember everything, I outsourced the act of reflection. I didn’t revisit ideas. I certainly never interrogated them. I filed them away and trusted the structure. But a structure is not thinking. A tag is not an insight. And an idea never re-encountered might as well be forgotten entirely. 

Every tool changes the shape of the hand that uses it.

Obsidian is a brilliant piece of software. I love it, dearly. But like anything, without restraint, it can also be a trap. Markdown files in nested folders. Plugins that track your productivity. Graph views that give you the vibe of omniscience. There’s an illusion of mastery in watching your notes web into constellations. But constellations are projections. They tell stories. They don’t (they can’t) guarantee understanding.

When I first started using PKM tools, I believed I was solving a problem of forgetting. Later, I believed I was solving a problem of integration. Eventually, I realized I had created a new problem: deferral. The more my system grew, the more I deferred the work of thought to some future self who would sort, tag, distill, and extract the gold.

That self never arrived.

There is a guilt that accompanies unread books, articles and blog posts. But there is a special anxiety reserved for unread lists of unread things. My reading list had become a totem of imagined wisdom, a shrine to the person I would be, if only I read everything on it.

When I deleted that list, I lost nothing real.

I know what I want to read. I know the shape of my attention. I don’t need a 7,000-item database to prove that I have taste or ambition.

This mirrors a deeper psychological error: the belief that by naming a goal, you are closer to achieving it, that by storing a thought, you have understood it, that by filing a fact, you have earned the skill to deploy it.

This is productivity as performance. It’s a symptom of modern intellectual insecurity: the fear of losing track, of forgetting, of not being caught up.

But caught up to what? The feed? The discourse? The meme cycle?

There is no finish line in the pursuit of knowing. Only presence.

Nietzsche burned early drafts. Michelangelo destroyed sketches. Leonardo left thousands of pages unfinished. The act of deletion is a reassertion of agency.

In design, folks talk about subtraction as refinement. A sculptor chips away everything that is not the figure. A musician cuts a line that clutters the melody. But in knowledge work, we hoard. We treat accumulation as a virtue.

But what if deletion is the truer discipline?

I don’t think I want a map of everything I’ve ever read. I want a mind free to read what it needs. I want memory that forgets gracefully. I want ideas that resurface because they mattered, not just because an index card was forced to the forefront by some complex system of levers and pulleys. 

What does it feel like to start again?

I write knowing it may disappear, and I highlight books knowing the highlights will fade. I trust that what matters will return, will find its way to the surface. I no longer worship the permanence of text.

There is a Hebrew word: “zakhor.” It means both memory and action. To remember, in this tradition, is to fulfill an ethical obligation; to make the past present through attention.

My new system is, simply, no system at all. I write what I think. I delete what I don’t need. I don’t capture everything. I don’t try to. I read what I feel like. I think in conversation, movement, and context. I don’t and I won’t build a second brain. I just want to get a whole lot better at inhabiting the first. Drawing on something DHH (37Signals) told me a couple of years ago, I’ve started keeping a single note called WHAT where I write down a handful of things I have to remember. The important bits will find their way back.

I don’t want to manage knowledge. I want to live it.

I still love Obsidian. And I’m planning on using it again. From scratch. And with a deeper level of curation and care  -  as a workspace for the brain I already have.

For the first time in years, I’m actually excited by that.