Involution Labs

Tag: writing

  • En tidsresa

    Nora är en liten trästad mitt i Bergslagen, omgivet av skog och sjöar som sträcker sig bortom horisonten. Jag, Toini, har alltid älskat Nora för den där känslan av närhet till naturen, som om platsen själv var en del av mitt ursprung. Inte bara född av min mamma, utan av själva jorden, träden och vattnet.

    Det finns ett träd i Striberg, en liten by åtta kilometer härifrån, som jag alltid känt en särskild koppling till. Det var som om det skickade en signal till mig för länge sedan, och då byggde jag en koja där uppe bland grenarna. När jag tog med mina barn dit förrförra sommaren fanns kojan fortfarande kvar, sliten men stadig.

    Det fanns något särskilt med den där platsen. Vi klättrade upp, och jag såg hur mina barn, som nästan vuxit ikapp mig vid det här laget, enkelt fick plats. Jag satt där med benen dinglande över kanten, när något märkligt hände. Det var som om tiden vände sig själv ut och in. Plötsligt var jag liten igen, precis så liten som när jag byggde kojan första gången.

    Mina barn skrattade rakt ut, inte av chock utan av ren glädje. Marika kramade mig hårt.

    ”Du är så söt, Toini! Du ser ut som ett busfrö som precis planerar något stort… som att gömma en macka i en sko.”

    Kejt torkade bort några lyckotårar.

    ”Eller som någon som redan gömt mackan och bara väntar på att någon ska sätta på sig skon.”

    De kände igen mig direkt från gamla fotografier. Nu var de äldre än mig, elva och tolv, och vi skrattade tills magen gjorde ont.

    Jag hittade en platt metallgrej i fickan och höll upp den.

    ”Vad är det här?” frågade jag.

    ”Din nya drog,” svarade Marika torrt.

    ”Ja,” sa Kejt, ”du kollar på den minst 125 gånger om dagen.”

    ”Mer som 1125 gånger,” inflikade Marika med ett skratt.

    ”Så den funkar som ett fönster till en parallell värld? Typ som en magisk spegel?”

    ”Mest som en magisk spegel som visar vad folk åt till frukost och vilka memes som trendar,” sa Kejt.

    De visade mig hur man tog en bild, en ”groupie” som de kallade det. Kejt höll upp apparaten, vi tryckte oss nära och sa ”hej” samtidigt som han klickade på skärmen. Plötsligt fanns jag där, på skärmen, med mitt spretiga, egenklippta hår.

    ”Jag ser ut som en blandning mellan en igelkott och en vildidé,” sa jag.

    Vi skrattade igen, lika mycket åt bilden som åt min min.

    Det var något särskilt med den dagen. Vi stannade i kojan tills solen började gå ner, och vi visste att så snart vi lämnade den, skulle jag vara vuxen igen. Men det gjorde inget.

    ”Det gör inget att du blir vuxen,” sa de i mun på varandra. ”Du har alltid varit på vår nivå. Fast med fler räkningar att betala.”

  • End of Year Ceremony

    Karin read the joint email from the city’s schools one more time.

    The principal of the secondary school wrote that they would very much like to continue the tradition of holding the end-of-year ceremony in the church, but that her speech must not contain any religious elements whatsoever. Not like last year, when she had ended by wishing the children a pleasant and blessed summer.

    One word.

    Blessed.

    “Then why are you holding the ceremony in a church,” Karin muttered as she typed her reply, “if you want to restrict my right to say what lies closest to my heart—the very thing I have been called to say in my role as a priest?”

    She smiled to herself.

    She always built her sermons around the infinite love of the cosmos. She intended to do the same this time.

    Karin practiced a form of spirituality that not even the Church of Sweden quite knew what to make of, but her message had always been the same: to bring people together, not divide them.

    When the day arrived, she was unusually nervous.

    What was expected of her and what was about to happen were not necessarily the same thing.

    She reminded herself that light had always made people uneasy.

    Karin welcomed everyone into the church, dressed in its summer finery. Once everyone was seated, she closed the doors and, her legs trembling slightly, climbed into the pulpit.

    “When I stand here before you,” she said, “I am dazzled by your light. The inner light that shines so brightly it can sometimes be difficult to see. But I can see clearly that the future is bright because of you.”

    She let her gaze wander across the room.

    “You have chosen to celebrate an ending and a beginning here. You are ending a school year and stepping into a summer of unfamiliar things. You do not need to go to church to be loving, and you do not need to be here to believe in something greater than yourselves. But sometimes people need to gather in ways they otherwise would not, to acknowledge what brings us together.”

    She paused.

    “Light.”

    The children sat quietly.

    “You celebrate your birthday once a year. You come here once a year. Days like these are for letting go and replenishing yourselves. You are concluding a year of worldly learning in a place that can remind you of something larger. The cosmos dissolves boundaries.”

    She smiled.

    “I hope you at least catch a glimpse of your own greatness. I don’t mean followers or comments, but your inner light.”

    She stepped down from the pulpit.

    “To see yourselves and one another more clearly, we are going to do a simple exercise.”

    Karin demonstrated with her hands.

    “Stand like warriors. Follow the movements and sweep away whatever no longer serves you. What truly belongs with you will remain.”

    They followed her lead.

    “Now take each other’s hands. Form an unbroken chain.”

    The church fell silent.

    “Close your eyes if you wish. Think of something you are grateful for. Say it silently or aloud. Feel that gratitude moving through you, like a wave of light.”

    Karin walked slowly through the church, between the rows.

  • What Do the World Cup and Eurovision Have in Common?

    They are both global storytelling festivals.

    The competition is the stage; the real drama is the people watching it.

    The World Cup and Eurovision create temporary maps of affection and resentment. For a few weeks, people rediscover who they feel close to, who they instinctively oppose, and which old stories are still alive.

    The arguments around Eurovision can be more revealing than the winning song. They show what a country cares about, what irritates it, and how it sees its place in the wider world. The fascinating part is watching a country say, in effect: “This is how we want the world to see us this year.”

    The World Cup does something similar on a global scale.

    When people talk about Eurovision, they often talk about the songs. When people talk about the World Cup, they talk about the football. What fascinates me is what happens before either competition begins.

    Long before a ball is kicked or a song is sung, countries start telling stories about themselves.

    Every Eurovision act is, in some way, a national introduction. Some countries present themselves as modern and sophisticated. Others embrace humour, eccentricity, tradition, rebellion or nostalgia. The songs matter, but so does the message behind them.

    The same thing happens at the World Cup.

    This year, Norway told a story.

    Before the tournament had even properly begun, the Norwegian team posed dressed as Vikings. Some people immediately saw colonisers and raiders. Yet that is not how much of the world sees the Vikings. For many people, the Vikings represent curiosity, courage and the willingness to leave the familiar behind.

    The people who sailed west from Scandinavia were not living in a land of endless abundance. They survived in a harsh climate with short growing seasons. They looked beyond the horizon and wondered what else was out there.

    That image still resonates today.

    Norway took that story and turned it into a simple act: rowing.

    Suddenly people everywhere were rowing for Norway. They dropped to the floor in offices, schools, gyms and living rooms. Nursing home residents turned their exercises into rowing sessions. People who had never met a Norwegian in their lives found themselves taking part in a small national ritual.

    The rowing was not really about football.

    It was a story about a small country setting out into the unknown and inviting others to come along for the journey.

    The image was simple and irresistible: a small nation climbing into the boat together and rowing out to take on the world.

    Norway was rowing for gold.

    I don’t even watch the matches, but it was almost impossible to miss. My social media feeds filled with Erling Haaland videos. There were clips of his goals, his interviews, his larger-than-life presence and his peculiar sense of humour. I even found myself watching videos of his sister affectionately mimicking him. Her impressions were funny precisely because they were so warm. She seemed to know exactly which details made him recognisably himself.

    That’s how these tournaments escape the boundaries of sport. The players become characters, their families become part of the narrative, and the supporters create rituals that travel far beyond the stadium.

    You don’t need to watch ninety minutes of football to become aware that something is happening.

    The same thing happened at Eurovision.

    Bulgaria did not simply send a song. It sent an idea.

    Before Eurovision, Bangaranga was a catchy pop song. On stage it became something else. The choreography, movement and visual storytelling brought the song fully to life. I found myself completely hypnotised by it.

    The word itself is unusual, but DARA used it to express something universal: finding your inner strength, letting go of fear and having the courage to be yourself. The performance transformed that message into something you could feel rather than merely hear.

    Bulgaria went on to win Eurovision for the first time, but by then the story had already connected with people.

    That is what these competitions are really about.

    Countries do not simply send football teams and songs. They send stories about themselves.

    This year, Norway’s story was rowing towards the horizon. Bulgaria’s story was finding the courage to become yourself.

    One invited people to pick up an oar. The other invited people to let go of fear.

    The competition gave them a stage. The stories are what people will remember.

    Years from now, most people will not remember every result. What they will remember are the stories.

    This year, Norway’s story got people rowing.

    A small country told a story about itself, and the world decided it liked the story.

  • The Same Book. Two Completely Different Experiences.

    “I didn’t expect a book to understand me.”

    I’m fourteen and I’ve spent years feeling like adults hear me but don’t actually listen. Like school decides who I’m supposed to be before I even know myself. Like being young means waiting for life to begin.

    I picked up Warriors of Change expecting another story about brave kids changing the world. I was wrong.

    This book made me feel something stranger: recognised.

    It felt like someone had taken all the thoughts I’ve had but never said out loud—the anger at unfair rules, feeling different, questioning things everyone else accepts, wanting adults to guide instead of control—and put them into words.

    The Declaration of the Children of the Universe made me cry. Not because it was sad, but because for the first time I read:

    Maybe children are people now, not future people.

    I know some adults will think this book is rebellious or unrealistic. Maybe it is. But I think what scares people is the idea that young people might already know who they are.

    I didn’t agree with everything. I argued with parts. But weirdly, I think the book wanted me to argue.

    My favourite idea was that questioning isn’t wrong and change isn’t betrayal. I’ve always felt guilty for wanting different things from my family, my school, even my culture. This book made me think:

    What if becoming yourself isn’t selfish?

    After finishing, I didn’t feel inspired in the usual way. I felt… braver.

    I think some readers will hate this trilogy. Some adults especially.

    But if you’ve ever felt too loud, too sensitive, too imaginative, too rebellious, too different—or like no one takes you seriously because of your age—this book might feel less like reading and more like finally being heard.

    I wish I’d found it sooner.

    “Interesting, strange, and surprisingly sincere — but I’m not sure who it’s for.”

    I’m 16 and picked up Warriors of Change because the title sounded dystopian and rebellious. I expected something more like The Hunger Games or a YA fantasy about overthrowing a system. It’s not that.

    This book feels less like modern YA and more like someone trying to remember exactly what being young felt like before adulthood took over. Sometimes that works really well. Some parts made me stop and think:

    Why do adults always assume they know better?
    Why are children treated like unfinished people?

    The ideas about school, freedom, questioning beliefs, and being allowed to become yourself are interesting. I liked that the book doesn’t automatically side with authority.

    But I also kept wondering:

    Was this written by someone who was raising children or thinking about their own youth?

    Because sometimes the characters sound less like teenagers now and more like what adults wish teenagers would say if they could explain everything perfectly.

    Also… almost no phones? No social media obsession? No constant notifications? No AI? No influencers? No group chats exploding every five minutes?

    At first it made the world feel dated.

    Then I started thinking maybe that’s intentional.

    The book seems weirdly uninterested in trends and more interested in older questions:

    Who decides who you become?
    What if school isn’t helping everyone?
    Can traditions stop people becoming themselves?
    What do children know that adults forget?

    Those questions don’t really age.

    Some parts (especially the declarations and speeches) felt long, and occasionally it sounded more like a manifesto than a novel.

    But I respected that the book actually believes in something. A lot of books now are ironic about everything. This one isn’t embarrassed to care.

    I didn’t agree with all of it, and I’m not sure I was supposed to.

    I think readers will either feel deeply understood or roll their eyes completely.

    I ended up somewhere in the middle:

    I questioned it.
    I argued with it.
    But I kept thinking about it afterwards.

    Which might mean it succeeded.

  • The Courage to Think

    Thinking is often treated as something automatic. We assume we’re already doing it because we have opinions, reactions, beliefs, and conclusions, but real thinking requires something more demanding. It requires openness.

    To think isn’t just to process information; it’s to allow ourselves to be changed by what we encounter. That isn’t easy. It means letting go of certainty, questioning what feels familiar, and staying with ideas that don’t immediately make sense. That takes courage.

    Inspiration is often treated as something external, something that arrives when the conditions are right. But it’s closely tied to thinking itself. It emerges when we stay open, when we’re willing to engage without needing immediate answers or clear outcomes.

    When I was growing up, characters like Pippi Longstocking, created by Astrid Lindgren, suggested that it was possible to move through the world differently, without needing to fit neatly into expectations or social norms. That kind of influence doesn’t just inspire behaviour; it changes how you think about what’s possible. In a different way, Tove Jansson, the creator of the Moomin books, encouraged a deeper kind of reflection, a willingness to examine and question rather than accept things as they are.

    Thinking doesn’t happen in isolation. It’s shaped by what we read, what we experience, who we encounter, and also by the language we move through every day. Language does more than communicate ideas; it shapes how we understand them. The words available to us influence what we can describe, question, and even notice.

    When language becomes simplified, shortened, or reduced to immediate reactions, thinking can become narrower too. Quick responses replace reflection. Nuance disappears behind slogans, captions, and certainty. Even digital forms of communication—text language, constant scrolling, emojis, and rapid exchanges—change the rhythm of thought itself. They’re expressive, efficient, and useful in many ways, but they also encourage speed over depth. And deep thinking rarely happens quickly.

    There’s a tendency to avoid discomfort by simplifying things, by turning challenges into easy explanations. Phrases like “everything happens for a reason” don’t open thinking. They close it. They offer resolution without understanding.

    Challenges aren’t interruptions to thinking; they’re what make it possible. To think well, we have to be willing to learn, unlearn, and relearn. That means meeting new situations without assuming we already understand them and allowing doubt, uncertainty, and contradiction to exist without rushing to resolve them.

    In that sense, thinking isn’t just an intellectual activity. It’s a way of being. And it begins with something simple but difficult: being open enough to change.

    Excerpt from Thinking Out Loud: Notes on Being Human

  • What Astrid Lindgren Understood About Children That We Still Don’t

    We like to believe that we respect children. We say we care about them, we protect them, we educate them, and we make decisions for them in what we call their best interest. But respect is something else entirely, and if we’re honest, we’re not very good at it.

    Astrid Lindgren understood that, not as an idea, but as a way of being. She didn’t just write stories for children, she wrote from their perspective, which is a very different thing. Most adults write down to children, simplifying, correcting, shaping, but Astrid entered their world without trying to control it.

    That’s why characters like Pippi Longstocking didn’t make sense to adults. She was too independent, too strong, too unpredictable. Adults were uncomfortable with her, but children weren’t. Children recognised something in her that adults had forgotten or perhaps never really trusted in the first place.

    We often say we love children, but love without respect easily turns into control. We decide what they should feel, what they should learn, how they should behave, and we call it guidance, when in reality it often becomes management. Astrid believed something much simpler and much more radical: give children love, more love, and then some more love, and common sense will come by itself. It sounds soft, but it isn’t, because it requires trust, and trust is exactly where we struggle.

    We don’t trust children to know themselves. We don’t trust them to feel deeply. We don’t trust them to grow without being shaped into something acceptable. And it shows in how we speak to them, how quickly we correct them, and how little space we give them to be fully themselves.

    Astrid didn’t just write about children, she defended them. She influenced how people thought, and her work contributed to Sweden becoming the first country to ban corporal punishment. That didn’t happen by accident. It came from a very clear understanding that children are not something to control, they are people.

    And yet, even now, that idea still feels radical. We celebrate her stories, we turn them into films, we quote her, but we don’t always live by what she believed. Because if we did, we would have to change how we listen, how we respond, and how much control we think we are entitled to have.

    It’s easier to admire Astrid Lindgren than to take her seriously. But maybe that’s the point. We don’t just struggle to understand children. We struggle to respect them.

  • Education and the Fear of Thinking

    Education is often described as the foundation of a healthy society. Politicians praise it, parents worry about it, and schools are expected to shape the next generation into capable adults. Yet the question we rarely ask is a simple one:

    Does our education system actually encourage thinking?

    In many ways, modern schooling rewards the opposite.

    Education as a system of obedience

    In Ireland, the Leaving Certificate and the CAO system determine much of a student’s future. A single set of exams decides which university course a student can enter and often what career path becomes possible. The result is predictable: students learn how to play the exam game.

    Instead of exploring ideas, questioning assumptions, or making intellectual mistakes, students become experts at recognising patterns in past papers and reproducing expected answers. Success is measured not by curiosity or creativity, but by how well someone can memorise and perform under pressure.

    The system produces excellent test-takers. It does not necessarily produce independent thinkers.

    Other countries have taken a different approach. Finland, for example, emphasises creativity, collaboration, and flexible educational pathways. Students are encouraged to experiment, question, and even fail. In such systems, mistakes are treated as part of learning rather than evidence of failure.

    The contrast reveals something deeper than educational policy. It reveals different attitudes toward risk and authority.

    Fear as a motivational tool

    Schools often rely on fear to maintain discipline and motivate students. Children are told that if they do not work hard enough, they will fail in life. Sometimes the warnings are even more dramatic: that they will end up unemployed, addicted to drugs or living under a bridge.

    Many teachers believe they are motivating students. But fear is a dangerous tool. Some children respond with compliance, but others respond with anxiety, perfectionism or despair.

    A child who is constantly worried about failure does not learn freely. Instead, they learn to avoid mistakes at all costs.

    When fear becomes the underlying emotional atmosphere of education, curiosity slowly disappears.

    The forgotten students: those who feel deeply

    Schools are designed around averages. They assume that children learn in similar ways, at similar speeds, and respond to pressure in similar ways.

    But children are not a homogeneous group.

    Some children are particularly sensitive to their surroundings. They process information deeply, ask difficult questions, and respond strongly to injustice or hypocrisy. These children are often curious and imaginative, but they can also struggle in rigid environments where conformity is rewarded.

    In such systems, sensitivity is often treated as weakness. A child who feels deeply may be told not to be so emotional, not to overthink, not to ask too many questions.

    Over time, many of these children learn a painful lesson: school is a place where they do not fit.

    The myth of “teaching critical thinking”

    Educators frequently claim that schools teach students to think critically. Yet critical thinking cannot simply be taught as a technical skill.

    True criticism requires something deeper: a critical spirit. It requires teachers and students who are willing to question assumptions, debate ideas openly, and tolerate uncertainty.

    In many classrooms, however, students are encouraged to repeat approved perspectives rather than challenge them. Discussions that appear critical sometimes function more like intellectual exercises in conformity.

    When questioning becomes selective, education begins to resemble indoctrination rather than inquiry.

    Education and the courage to think

    A healthy education system should cultivate something far more valuable than exam scores: intellectual courage.

    Students should be encouraged to explore ideas, challenge authorities, and pursue their own interests. They should learn that knowledge is not a set of fixed answers but a continuous process of discovery.

    Most importantly, they should feel safe enough to think freely.

    Education should not train students to memorise the correct answers. It should prepare them to ask better questions.

    Because in a rapidly changing world, the ability to question, adapt, and think independently will always matter more than the ability to pass a test.

  • Choosing to Live for Yourself

    At some point in life, many people confront a difficult question: why am I living the life I’m living?

    For some, the answer is simple. For others, the answer is less clear. Life can become a series of expectations — from family, society, culture, or circumstance. We follow paths that others believe are right for us: school, career, marriage, stability. Often these paths work well. But sometimes they leave people feeling that their life no longer belongs to them.

    When people feel powerless or trapped in roles that do not reflect who they are, despair can follow. Sociologists have long argued that weak social ties, isolation, and lack of belonging can deepen this sense of disconnection. When a person feels they have no control over their life, they may begin to question its meaning.

    Yet this crisis can also become a turning point.

    Confronting the limits of one’s life can force a deeper question: What do I actually want? The moment someone realises that they have the right to live differently can be the first step toward reclaiming their life.

    Living authentically does not mean rejecting others or abandoning responsibility. It means recognising that a meaningful life cannot be built entirely on the expectations of others. At some point, people must decide that their life is their own.

    Not everyone will follow the same path. Parenting is not for everyone. University is not for everyone. A traditional career is not for everyone. Some people find meaning through relationships and family; others find it through creativity, independence, or solitude.

    What matters is not the specific path but the freedom to choose it.

    Learning to listen to oneself,  to understand one’s own values, limits, and desires, is an important step toward living authentically. When people begin to see themselves as worthy of care and respect, they may find new reasons to live differently and more fully.

    Life does not always unfold according to the scripts society provides. But that does not make it meaningless. Sometimes meaning appears only when we take responsibility for our own lives and begin to shape them consciously.

    Choosing to live for yourself is not selfish.

    It is the beginning of an authentic life.

  • What Was the Renaissance?

    The Renaissance was not a place. Although it began in Italy, it was primarily a change in mindset.

    After centuries of war, plague, and rigid religious authority, Europeans began to rediscover ancient Greek and Roman ideas about knowledge, human potential, and critical thinking. Scholars fleeing the Byzantine Empire brought classical manuscripts to Italy, where they were studied and copied.

    But the true engine of the Renaissance was not only the rediscovery of ancient texts. It was the printing press.

    Printing allowed knowledge to spread rapidly. Books that had once taken months or years to copy by hand could now be reproduced quickly and in large numbers. For the first time, ideas could circulate widely, allowing people to compare arguments, question authority, and think independently.

    The printing press created an information revolution.

    This shift transformed education, religion, science, and politics. It encouraged doubt, debate, and the belief that individuals could discover truth through reason rather than simply accepting inherited authority.

    In many ways, the Renaissance marked the beginning of the modern world.

    Today we may be living through something similar.

    Just as printing once transformed Europe, the internet is transforming the world. Knowledge is no longer controlled by scribes, priests, or universities. Anyone with access to the internet can publish ideas, share information, and participate in global conversations.

    In the Renaissance, humanists and scholars were the main producers of books. Today, anyone with a keyboard can become a writer.

    Both periods share a common feature: the rapid spread of knowledge.

    Yet the lesson of the Renaissance may also be a warning. The printing press spread both truth and error. New ideas flourished, but so did misinformation and ideological conflict.

    The same is true today.

    Just as Renaissance thinkers learned to question authority and evaluate sources critically, we must apply the same habits of logic, doubt, and reason in the digital age.

    The Renaissance was not only a rebirth of ancient learning. It was an awakening of human curiosity and critical thought.

    Perhaps our own time is experiencing a similar awakening.

  • Literature and Journalism: Where Do They Meet?

    What is the difference between literature and journalism? Are they two completely separate forms of writing, or are they simply different ways of telling the truth?

    Literature refers to written works, especially books and other printed texts. It can include fiction and non-fiction, prose and poetry, and many different forms such as novels, short stories, and drama. Literature uses language to create worlds, characters, and situations that may be fictional but still reflect real human experience.

    Storytelling is ancient. Long before printing presses and newspapers existed, people told stories orally. When writing systems developed in places like Mesopotamia and later in the Americas, stories began to be recorded. The invention of alphabets in the Middle East and Greece, papermaking in China, and later printing technologies transformed how stories were preserved and shared.

    Literature shaped human understanding of the world for thousands of years. Our sense of history, culture, and identity would be unimaginable without it.

    Journalism developed much later but shares some of the same roots. Journalism focuses on gathering, assessing, and presenting information about real events. The earliest journalistic records can be traced back to ancient Rome, where daily news was carved on stone and displayed in public places. In China, government bulletins also recorded events to keep officials informed.

    Modern newspapers began to appear in Europe in the early seventeenth century. The first regular German newspaper appeared in 1609, and English-language newspapers followed soon after. Over time, journalism became an organised profession with its own standards and practices.

    While literature explores truth through imagination, journalism aims to report facts about current events. Journalists traditionally focus on answering five key questions: who, what, where, when, and why. Their work is expected to be informative, accurate, and accessible to a broad audience.

    Today the internet has transformed both literature and journalism. Blogs, social media, and online publications have changed how stories are written, distributed, and consumed. At the same time, the boundary between professional journalism and citizen reporting has become less clear.

    The relationship between literature and journalism is often summarised in a famous phrase: journalism is literature in a hurry. Journalists must publish quickly, while writers of literature may spend years refining a single work.

    Yet both forms of writing attempt to capture truth. Literature turns truth into art and allows readers to imagine other perspectives. Journalism attempts to reveal what is happening in the world right now.

    Perhaps they are not opposites after all, but two different ways of helping us understand reality.