The Quiet Divergence

While my professors extolled the virtues of Foucault, I was absorbed in Lacan.

While they dissected Freud’s psyche, I drifted through Jung’s vast, symbolic landscapes.

And as they championed revolutionary governments, I quietly envisioned a world shaped not by the fervour of ideological battles but by the delicate equilibrium of sociocracy — where decisions emerged not from dominance, but from the resonance of collective wisdom.

It wasn’t rebellion. Not the loud, performative kind.

I wasn’t the student who slammed books shut in protest or baited professors into futile debates. No, my resistance was quieter, woven into the pauses between lectures, in the knowing glance exchanged with an unspoken kindred spirit, in the silent refusal to let convention dictate curiosity.

I didn’t seek to discredit Foucault, nor did I wish to discard Freud entirely (after all, who else could have spun an entire school of thought from the delicate thread of unresolved childhood?).

I simply felt that alternative perspectives deserved more than a begrudging footnote, a polite nod, or worse — complete omission.

This inclination to step off the prescribed path wasn’t limited to philosophy.

While my peers marvelled at the meticulous precision of plastic surgery and dermatology, captivated by the artistry of aesthetic perfection, I was drawn elsewhere — to a realm where the body was not just an object to be sculpted but an ecosystem of energy, rhythm, and silent conversations between forces unseen.

I immersed myself in acupuncture, in energetic medicine, in the idea that healing was not merely intervention, but alignment — a return, rather than a correction.

Yet I treaded carefully, discreet in my convictions, knowing that nothing unsettles orthodoxy more than an alternative that works.

Perhaps it was defiance, or perhaps it was just instinct — the quiet aversion to walking paths so well-trodden that the dust has long settled.

Either way, while the room swayed in synchrony to yet another impassioned monologue on Marxist ideals, I sat in the corner, mapping sociocratic governance into the margins of my notebook — convinced that truth is not something to be taught, but something to be found, often in places where few think to look.

And so, while I may not have repeated the prevailing theories, I carried with me a quiet certainty: thought is most alive when it dares to stray.

Comments

Accounting for the Invisible

It is once more that time of year — the season for gathering documents, for preparing the annual offering to the revenue gods. Tedious, draining, bureaucratic. Yes, all of that. But it is also a curious interval of observation, a quiet adjustment of memory’s lens. After all, the past year — or at least its more tangible husk — lies partially inscribed in these papers. I say partially, for what is captured on the page is a witness of uneven fidelity. Absent are the details, the reasons, the delicate chain of responsibility. The numbers are all there: the income, the transactions, the movement of capital. But backstage remains hidden — the weight of effort, the hush of a conscience at peace. What is left is a pale suggestion of something more vital — this elusive current we call money. Energy transmuted, but only faintly traceable. A flicker of something once vivid, now flattened by ink and deadlines. And so I sift through the papers. Not merely to comply, but to remember. To...

What Strength Truly Means: A Letter to Men

There exists, hidden in the quiet undercurrents of our culture, a grand illusion: that manhood is synonymous with silence, that strength demands the concealment of pain, and that the measure of a man is his ability to endure without faltering. Such ideas pass through generations like whispered codes, accepted without question, repeated without reflection. And yet, when held to the light of reason, they wither like old parchment, for they are not truths, but relics of fear. It must be said — and said without apology — that you are allowed to speak of what has wounded you. To give voice to pain is not to surrender to it, but to name it, to limit its dominion. Silence may seem noble in the moment, but over time it hardens into a cage. Words, carefully chosen and honestly spoken, are the first instruments of freedom. You are allowed to weep — not as an act of collapse, but as a testament to your humanity. Tears are not the language of the weak; they are the body's recogniti...

A Malicious Rejection of Education

There are moments — quiet, unbidden — when one pauses and wonders: how did we come to this? After centuries of inquiry, of minds that charted the unseen and hands that steadied the fevered, we now find ourselves in a peculiar and disquieting place. A place where truth is not refuted for want of evidence, but rejected for daring to inconvenience belief. The antivaxx movement is a malicious rejection of education — not a lapse in understanding, but a deliberate estrangement from reason. It perplexes, not for its novelty, but for its brazenness. This is not the soft silence of the uninformed; it is the clamour of the wilfully blind, adorned in the rhetoric of liberty and cloaked in a defiant performance of scepticism. Vaccines — the elegant product of scientific rigour and logistical triumph — are cast aside in favour of speculation, rumour, and the seductive pull of conspiratorial thinking. To refuse a vaccine is not an emblem of critical thought. It is, more often, a retreat...

The Hyggelig Journey

Search This Blog