Somehow, being slow has become a state that needs explaining.
Eat slowly, and you’re called inefficient. Reply slowly, and people wonder if you don’t care. Decide slowly, and it feels like you’re disrespecting the pace of the world.
Everyone is busy. Busy finishing things, instead of busy passing through them.
Three minutes to grasp the essence of a book. Five minutes to decide whether a movie is worth watching. Even traveling requires check-ins, tags, and recaps— proof that you were really there.
But I’ve noticed this: the moments that truly stayed in my body were almost never properly recorded.
Not because they weren’t important, but because I was too busy living them to take out my phone.
Slowness is not very likable. It offers no immediate return, guarantees no outcome, and cannot be monetized right away.
Slowness is: sitting there while nothing happens, yet knowing you didn’t run away.
For many people, that’s a luxury they can’t afford.
I used to feel anxious too— wondering if I was falling behind, if I wasn’t driven enough, ambitious enough. Only later did I realize: I simply never joined the race of collective acceleration.
Slowness isn’t a rebellion against the world. It’s just a choice not to be pushed forward.
Like when you’re walking and suddenly stop to look at a tree— you produce nothing in that moment, but you exist fully for a second.
The world will not stop for you. But you can stop for yourself.
And that pause is not laziness. It’s taking yourself back.