Most of what we read online is built to be skimmed. Headlines are written to be scanned, paragraphs are kept short so the eye can slide down the page without resistance, and whole articles are structured so you can leave after the first two sentences and still feel like you got the point. None of this is an accident. It's the logical result of writing for an audience that is, by design, in a hurry.
I don't think there's anything wrong with that kind of writing. Some things genuinely are just information, and the fastest path to the information is the kindest one. But somewhere along the way, "fast" stopped being one option among many and became the only mode most writing is allowed to take. Even essays — pieces that are supposed to sit with an idea, turn it over, and take their time getting somewhere — have started to read like they're apologizing for existing past the third paragraph.
This is a short argument for the opposite. Not for difficulty for its own sake, and not for making people work harder than they need to. Just for writing, sometimes, at the speed the thought actually moves — even when that's slower than a feed wants it to be.
I started noticing this most clearly when I went back through old notebooks — actual paper ones, from before I did most of my thinking on a screen. The entries were slower. Not longer, necessarily, just slower: more willing to sit inside a single observation before moving to the next one. Reading them back, I didn't miss the speed. I missed the sitting.
None of this is a call to abandon short, clear writing — the world runs on it, and it deserves respect, not condescension. It's just a reminder that slow is still allowed. That an essay can take its time, that a sentence can be given room to finish its own thought, and that a reader who wants to stay a while should have something worth staying for.