I Shall Wear the Bottoms of my Trousers Rolled

What is time, really? Scrolling through endless feeds, where every thought or movement is cataloged, shared, displayed—a monument to the momentary. A mosaic of fragments, each a pixel in a fractured image of life. But there is no shape, no meaning, no depth. Just the weight of accumulation.

How many times must we post, repost, tweet, retweet, and like before we feel like we've finally said something? Anything? Yet the more we post, the less we seem to communicate. Every image blurred by the next waiting to take its place.

And then there’s that rare post—the one you barely see amidst the noise but somehow it lingers. You don’t scroll past it like you do the others. It holds you there, captures your memory. It’s not hurried, it’s not scrambling for attention. It’s simply there, radiating quiet truth, beauty, or sentiment.

It is the post that knows the value of the pregnant pause. The space between breaths, where anticipation builds and meaning forms—not through volume, but through silence. The pause where a thousand words could live but none do, because the moment itself is enough.

I think of social media like walking along a seashore. Many people pick up every rock or shell, filling their pockets until they can barely move under the weight of them. But then, there are those who pick up just one. The one stone that feels perfect. The one that, held up to the light, reveals something more than itself. They take that stone home, give it a place of honor on their shelf. It’s not the number of rocks that matter. It’s the one.

We live in a world afraid of pauses—afraid of silence, of gaps. Afraid of not posting enough, of not keeping up. But in the pause, in the waiting, the real substance begins to form. A post crafted with patience, with care, carries the weight of that pause. It doesn’t scream for attention. It waits, allowing meaning to settle.

The pace of everything, faster, faster—like trousers that grow longer and longer until you trip over the very fabric that was meant to cover you. So why not roll them up? Pause. Look around. Consider. Each moment, each word, each post can be a reflection. Thoughtful. Intentional.

In that quiet, in that pause before we speak, before we post—what might we create? When we stop adding to the pile for a moment and think, really think about what we want to say, to create—not for the sake of noise, but for the sake of art, for the sake of something that may outlast the scroll.

There is grace in saying enough. In choosing to roll your trousers up, wade into the shallows, and let the rest of the world run on without you for a while. You don’t need to keep up. Let them run. There’s more to see, in the pause, in the intentional step, in the single post that doesn’t drown itself in excess. It stands alone, because it is enough.

Quality is better than quantity, not because of some abstract notion of perfection, but because meaning cannot survive in excess. There is too much and so there is nothing. It is the pause, the restraint, that gives meaning its form.

So, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Not to keep up with the waves, but to feel them.

SEO, AI, CRM, CMS, CDP, and all other devils can wait. Take a long walk alone; you’ll see what I mean.