The Hyggelig Journey

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 ...