The small web didn't die—it was murdered. By platforms, by algorithms, by the relentless march of corporate consolidation. But death is not always permanent.

Remember when the internet felt infinite? When every click could lead you somewhere unexpected, somewhere personal, somewhere weird? That internet still exists, but you have to know where to look.

The platforms want you to believe that the web IS Facebook, IS Twitter, IS TikTok. But underneath all that noise, the small web is still breathing. Neocities, tilde servers, personal blogs on obscure domains—they're all still there, waiting to be discovered.

The resurrection is already happening. You just have to be part of it.

Linux is more than an operating system. It's a culture, a philosophy, a way of thinking about technology and freedom.

In 2025, when most computing happens in corporate clouds, when your phone is locked down tighter than a prison, when you need permission to install software on devices you "own"—the Linux ethos is more important than ever.

It's not about the kernel. It's about the idea that you should be able to understand, modify, and share the tools you use. It's about community over corporation. It's about building things together.

Every time you boot into Linux, you're making a statement: technology should serve people, not the other way around.

Old websites were "ugly" by modern standards. They had clashing colors, animated GIFs, and Comic Sans. But they had something modern websites lack: personality.

Every GeoCities page was a window into someone's soul. The "under construction" GIFs, the guestbooks, the webrings—they weren't just design choices, they were expressions of humanity.

Modern web design is "clean" and "professional" but also sterile and forgettable. Every site looks the same. Every experience is optimized for conversion, not connection.

Maybe ugly was beautiful all along.

The best things on the internet were built without asking for permission. No business plan, no market research, no approval from gatekeepers.

Wikipedia? Started by a guy in his apartment. Linux? A student's hobby project. The World Wide Web itself? A side project at a physics lab.

Stop waiting for permission. Stop asking if your idea is "viable." Stop worrying about scale. Just build the thing you want to exist.

The internet doesn't need another startup. It needs more people making weird, personal, wonderful things just because they can.

There is something romantic about the command line. The blinking cursor. The green text on black background. The feeling of direct communication with the machine.

No icons. No buttons. No distractions. Just you and the computer, speaking in a language older than most programmers alive today.

The terminal doesn't try to be friendly. It doesn't hold your hand. It respects you enough to assume you know what you're doing—or that you'll learn.

In a world of touch screens and voice assistants, the terminal is a love letter to a different kind of computing. One where the human is in control.