We used to call it a timeline. Now it’s called a feed.
Think about that for a moment. A feed. The mental image it produces is not a pleasant one—cattle, standing in a row, being presented with whatever they’re given that day. And somewhere along the way, that became us. Heads down, screens up, consuming whatever the algorithm decided we needed.
I remember when social media was just people I knew posting basic, unremarkable things. Someone had terrible coffee in the morning and would try again in the evening. That’s it. No hook, no emotional engineering, no carefully constructed opening three seconds designed to prevent you from scrolling away. Just a person, existing, sharing a small moment with people who cared about them. It was boring in the most human way possible.
Now you have to compete. With the algorithm, with attention spans that have been deliberately shortened, with a system that has been optimized to keep you inside it as long as possible. Expression has been pushed into a corner so small you can barely move in it. You get 20 characters and a music sticker. You get a story that disappears in 24 hours. You get a feed that never ends and somehow always leaves you empty.
The limitation used to be the invitation. On Twitter, 140 characters, it invited you to get creative, say something real in that small space. On Vine, a few seconds, so make it count. The constraint forced something out of you. The infinite scroll asks nothing of you except your time, and it takes everything else quietly.
I still post on Twitter because I want to write and I’ve always wanted to write. I post on YouTube because I want to talk without selling anything. I write on my own website because there is no character limit and no algorithm deciding whether what I said was worth showing to anyone. These are not strategies. They are small acts of rebellion against a system that turned art into content and creators into cattle.
You are not content. You are not a feed. You are not here to be optimized.
Express something. Not for the hook. Not for the algorithm. For yourself, and for the people who care enough to find it. That’s the whole point.