Octopus Intelligence and the Existential Dread of Having Eight Brains

The octopus, that soft-bodied marine anomaly, has eight arms, three hearts, and a nervous system so fragmented it borders on democratic chaos. Each arm contains its own dense cluster of neurons, operating with a level of autonomy that suggests the central brain is less a commander and more an easily ignored suggestion box.

To be clear, more than half of an octopus's neurons are in its arms. These limbs can touch, taste, and make decisions independently, without waiting for clearance from headquarters. This is not metaphor. It is their daily biological reality. You might think of it as distributed cognition. Or as an octopus accidentally punching itself in the face while trying to open a clam.

Naturally, biologists frame this as brilliance. Octopuses solve puzzles, remember faces, and use coconut shells as housing. They possess both short- and long-term memory and have been caught on video escaping tanks with the sort of precision one usually reserves for jewel thieves or disgruntled IT professionals.

But no one discusses the existential implications. With eight semi-autonomous arms, you’re never just multitasking. You’re negotiating with yourself in real time, sometimes unsuccessfully. The central brain becomes less of a control center and more of a weary project manager nodding vaguely at the chaos below.

They do not live long. Most species last one to two years. After mating, they die shortly afterward, a reproductive strategy that feels suspiciously like giving up. It is not hard to imagine why. If I had to coordinate a network of rogue appendages, communicate through chromatophores, and make sense of the world through horizontal slit pupils, I would also bow out early.

Solitude, for them, is not a mystery. It is a necessity. Knowing yourself is hard. Knowing eight versions of yourself simultaneously is unlivable.