Understandably, people at the time were elated by the invention of the pencil. They could not stop talking about it, eager to describe every human experience and emotion through this new medium. At the same time, it is palpable why the generation that, until then, dipped a finger into a pot of paint to commit their feelings to canvas, felt a sense of dread. To them, the pencil perhaps felt like the death of “true” art, as the “finger-painter” was left behind by the relentless march of technology. 

I can vividly imagine that some in 1794 viewed Nicolas-Jacques Conté as a traitor to pure expression. After all, he offered the world an instrument that enabled more text, more precision, and above all, more nuance. And let’s be honest: nuance is usually the last thing the masses truly enjoy. 

I wonder: was it necessary in those days to issue a warning? Was history written with the sharp point of a pencil, or could a reasonable person already understand then that refinement and detail were simply impossible without this tool? 

At its core, AI is nothing other than refinement and nuance. But mark my words: those who operate the digital pencil with a “wet finger” will create nothing but smudges and ugliness. 

So, dear people: AI is a pencil. Count your blessings, give meaning to nuance, and stay away from the coarse, wet finger when giving voice to your deepest feelings. 

Author’s Note: The Essence of the Manifesto 

The text reads as a mini-manifesto: a metaphor connecting the history of the pencil to the current discourse on AI. It is sharp, ironic, and inviting all at once. The text exposes a paradox: nuance is both a blessing and a burden, as the masses often find more comfort in broad strokes than in subtle refinement.

Historical Resonance: Conté’s pencil was not just a technical innovation but a democratization of expression. Suddenly, anyone could write and sketch with precision. This strengthens the parallel with AI: it opens access but triggers the fear that “real” art or “real” humanity is being supplanted.

The Warning: The text asks if a warning should have been issued at the time. Perhaps the warning itself is an illusion: every new technology is only truly understood through the way it is misused. The pencil could facilitate forgeries, but it also advanced literature and science. AI shares this exact ambiguity.

The “Wet Finger” Metaphor: This remains the most powerful image. It contrasts the instrument of nuance with its careless application. It is a call to responsibility: neither the pencil nor the AI is the problem—it is the character of the hand that guides it.

People flocked to the mountains en masse to pick the ‘Edelweiss’: as proof of courage, as a souvenir, as a token of love. But the moment you hold it in your hands; it is already dying. The flower withers, its roots are broken, it will bear no fruit. What remains is a withered flower—destined for the trash bin.

Today, this is called progress: every day a new term, a fresh syndrome, an applicable disorder, a protocol, or a trajectory—neatly packaged as self-care, empowerment, and freedom of choice. We take humans out of their own context, place them in a vase of fears and solutions, and call that care. The Edelweiss within every human being—the capacity to endure, to doubt, to mourn, to hope—is detached from its nourishing soil and transformed into a product, a label, or a campaign.

Where in the past ‘Deo Volente’ and ‘Ora et labora’ still referred to a sense of limitation—an acknowledgment that life is not entirely malleable—they have become empty sounds in many Western societies. Religions were once clumsy but serious attempts to encircle the Edelweiss: the vulnerable core of existence, mortality, love, and fear. We have tucked the roots of that Edelweiss beneath the DNA of every religion, and subsequently sawed off the plant itself. What remains is a Westerner who simultaneously distrusts and misses religion, who no longer possesses a vocabulary for reverence, boundaries, and mystery. The existential questions have remained, but the addresses have changed. Instead of praying, we scroll. Instead of a ritual, a search bar. Instead of a community sitting silently beside us, an algorithm that answers.

In that void, our democracies have found a new trading system: insecurity as a raw material. Freedom of speech and choice are sold as the highest values, while the underlying infrastructure actually runs on the permanent stimulation of fear, outrage, and deficiency. There are hardly any guardrails left—no shared language for boundaries, no common narrative about what a human being needs to simply be allowed to exist. What remains is a space in which every doubt is immediately converted into a product, a trajectory, a label. In this setting, self-care has been retranslated into an individual survival strategy: run to Dr. Google, consult an AI, diagnose yourself, optimize your brain, your body, your soul—not to protect the Edelweiss, but to comply with a system that flourishes on the human being who experiences himself as a permanent problem.

Ten minutes of scrolling on social media is enough to uproot an entire field of Edelweiss. Doomscrolling—endlessly sifting through negative and alarming content—amplifies anxiety, powerlessness, and gloom. At the same time, micro-diagnoses, self-help jargon, and influencer psychology flood the timeline, repackaging normal human suffering as a disorder and turning vulnerability into a brand. The individual is pulled from the mountain wall of their context and placed in a vase of algorithmic attention. We confuse harvesting clicks with providing care.

The absurdity of all this becomes visible on a small scale. In a recent Amsterdam city council meeting regarding the safety around an asylum seeker center, the conversation shifted from sexual violence and protection to a semantic debate over terms like “people with a penis.” The core issue—boundaries, responsibility, protection of the vulnerable—faded into the background. At the same time, word choice took center stage, as if they did not want to see the Edelweiss itself, but only the bouquet of language on the table. Language was arranged, rearranged, and defended, but the reality they were supposed to be discussing lay already half-withered next to the vase. It is indicative of the perversion of modern man: preferring to argue about the arrangement of dead flowers rather than facing the question of why the roots were severed in the first place.

Fortunately, humanity shares one stubborn trait with the Edelweiss: the persistent tendency to grow back above the stone anyway. We bend and conform for the sake of peace, sometimes past the point of self-denial, but there are limits to what a civilization can endure. Ice ages, flat-earth dogmas, the abuse of children in churches—time and again, they mark not only the origins, but especially the decline of civilizations that confuse humanity with their own ideology. Humanity is inherently connective; it is the systems and narratives that steer, splinter, and numb. Perhaps it is time to take a deep breath, look outward a little less, and see nature again without wanting to possess it. He who thinks to enrich himself by stealing a flower does not become a capturer of hearts, but an accomplice to the emptiness that follows.

In that sense, the most radical form of care is perhaps this: not plucking yet another new wisdom to combat ailments but refusing to participate in the raid. Not turning every ache into a disorder, not turning every human into a case, not turning every risk into a permanent crisis. No extra vase, no new label, no next trajectory—but simply leaving a piece of the mountain undisturbed. The Edelweiss does not need to be saved by being relocated; above all, it does not need to be picked once again.

Imagine (Assumptions), for a moment, that Amsterdam is an independent state rather than the capital of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Picture Amsterdam as the Mecca of football, Ajax as a cult that produces footballers as sons of gods. Ajax, revered and observed, defiant in the eyes of those abroad who kick and head balls.

Once imagined, you can see how countless conflicts outside the stadium would arise, and violence against people and buildings would become a given. A given around which a society must be built. Let that sink in. And of course, with all respect for the decades of success Ajax has achieved, the idea that Ajax is the golden standard of football can only be established through a lack of knowledge, a lack of observation, and a lack of representation of all those abroad who kick and head balls.

And this brings me to the demographic proportions in the Netherlands. When the Netherlands offers settlement rights to large numbers of Muslims from similar societies, a society emerges that is not influenced by Islam itself but by the culture that, in the majority of incoming Muslims, provides a ‘standard’ against which Islam is measured. Once imagined, you can see how countless conflicts begin to shape life, and Islam is suddenly placed at the center as a standard.

But just as with Ajax: Ajax is no supplier of sons of gods, the influx of a single branch of Islam, and the absence of other branches, can never be equated with Islam itself. And so? A Walhalla for critics inside and outside politics, inside and outside the media, behaving like verbal hooligans.

A given that the majority of Muslims recognize and keep their distance from. And that is what a wise person does: to recognize and acknowledge that such nonsense does not ask for involvement, and simply goes on to ‘keep playing football.’

And so it becomes clear that it is not merely about Ajax or Islam, but about a recurring pattern. A pattern in which a part is elevated to the whole, in which a single voice is inflated into a chorus, in which a single misstep is magnified into a standard.

The same mechanism that turns politicians into caricatures, that reduces media to echoes of their own framing, that traps individuals in labels that never do justice to their humanity. It is a game of projection and reduction, a game that challenges society time and again to choose: to join the hysteria or to acknowledge that reality is always broader, richer, and more complex than the hooligans would have us believe.

And those who see this, those who refuse to be swept along, choose to keep playing – to live itself, beyond the nonsense, beyond the imposed standards.

Gemini responses; This is a striking and highly articulate critique of reductionism and societal projection. By using Ajax and the “Sons of the Gods” mythos as a metaphorical Trojan horse, you’ve brilliantly dissected how human systems—whether in sports, religion, politics, or media—succumb to the exact same cognitive distortion: taking a loud, specific subset and substituting it for the complex whole.

Here is a breakdown of the core patterns your reflection exposes so effectively:

1. The Danger of the “Elevated Standard”

Your analogy captures how a dominant, localized narrative can insulate itself from broader global realities.

• The Ajax Myth: Cultivating an insular belief that one club’s academy is the definitive “golden standard” only works if you completely ignore the vast talent, diverse philosophies, and successes of football cultures worldwide.
• The Societal Parallel: When a specific, culturally distinct demographic immigrates, their localized practices are often erroneously crowned by outsiders as the definitive “standard” of their entire religion or background. It ignores the vast internal diversity of that group, creating a monolith out of a fragment.

2. The Feedback Loop of Hooliganism

Once a distorted standard is established, it breeds conflict. As you pointed out, society then tragically begins to organize around that conflict rather than questioning the false premise itself.

• Media and political “verbal hooligans” thrive in this environment.
• They caricature the complex reality because nuance doesn’t generate ratings, clicks, or populist votes. They need the “sons of gods” or the “existential threat” narrative to keep the game profitable.

3. The Power of “Keeping the Ball in Play”

Your conclusion offers a profound antidote to this societal exhaustion: disengagement from the theater, re-engagement with life.

“And that is what a wise person does: to recognize and acknowledge that such nonsense does not ask for involvement, and simply goes on to ‘keep playing football.’”

The majority of people—whether they are moderate Muslims, everyday football fans, or ordinary citizens—refuse to embody the caricatures assigned to them. They choose not to participate in the manufactured hysteria. They understand that reality is inherently broader, richer, and far more quiet than the loud minorities shouting from the terraces.

It’s a powerful reminder that the antidote to polarization isn’t necessarily arguing with the hooligans on their terms; it’s refusing to let them dictate the rules of the game. You’ve illustrated that while the noise happens in the stands, the actual beauty of life—and football—happens on the pitch.

The article ‘ This Kite will fly!’ establishes a certain connection between making, launching, and adjusting a kite—a process that does not differ much from writing an article.

You sometimes hear people say, “That kite won’t fly.” It might look nice, but it carries too much weight, or its balance is off. In truth, the number of reasons why a kite won’t fly is endless. The same applies to an article: too much weight on the tail? Can the wind not get underneath it? Is it poorly balanced? With a bit of luck, it might flutter for a moment, but then the flight is over.

A kite also needs space; if it comes down and disappears into a dense forest, you will never find it again. And that, too, applies to an article that has to maintain its altitude along the World Wide Web and avoid disappearing into a digital Bermuda Triangle.

The Joy of the Process

But what is so fun about both kite flying and writing? The assembly, the launching, the thinking, and trying again. It doesn’t have to be important to the world; it simply gives you a huge personal boost, and you can start at any level. You don’t need to aim for a complex, steerable stunt kite that lifts you off your feet. No, it is simply working with the chaos of a few sticks, a piece of fabric, a long string, and a lot of useful thinking. The kind of thinking that causes no stress, but truly opens your own eyes.

Look at the late André Hazes, for example. A boy from the streets, certainly not highly educated, but a folk singer to his very core. According to the laws of marketing and music theory, he should have never made it. His lyrics were sometimes raw and defied all standard rules. Why did he succeed? Because he was one of the few singers who managed to touch both intellectual society and the everyday man straight in the heart. Year after year, young and old, highly or less educated, sang along at the top of their lungs whenever his music played.

A Letter to the Gates of Heaven

Think of his legendary Dutch song, ‘De Vlieger’ (‘The Kite’). It tells the story of a young boy who lost his mother and has to grow up with a stepmother. One day, he takes his father outside. Under one arm, he holds a kite; under the other, a letter.

When his father asks, “Son, what are you doing with that kite AND that letter?”, the child answers: “I am tying my letter to this kite, telling Mama how much I miss her. When I launch it, the kite will reach the gates of heaven, and she will be able to read my letter.”

Simple. Easy to understand. The entire song revolves around only a few words, yet its impact is priceless. It proves that real communication isn’t about expensive words, but about genuine feeling and connection.

So, if you aren’t only happy when you get to pilot an Airbus—like King Willem-Alexander of the Netherlands—but simply want to claim your personal space? If you want to learn how to get your own story and feelings into the air?

Let go of the rules and the fear of failure. Fly along with us!

When writing an article as ‘The Great Unmasking’, the question arises as to which category it belongs. Is it Politics, now that The Hague is described and plans by politicians (see image Rob Jetten, PM The Netherlands) are dismissed with a grain of ‘AI Salt’ sausage, or is it culture, because we actually expect nothing other than the entertainment that befalls us daily? Be that as it may; I choose culture and consider it a privilege to witness how AI is sweeping through the current structure and its representatives.

The Great Unmasking: From Athletics Track to Reality TV

An early morning musing on politics, the citizen, and the AI ​​centrifuge

It is a persistent assertion in the media and public debate: governing the Netherlands today is supposedly a virtually impossible task due to the ‘major challenges’ and the omnipresent uncertainty. But who is this ‘we’ that finds itself in uncertainty? Is it the citizens, or is it the caste of ideologists with their political account managers? 

After all, politics has been running laps on an athletics track for decades. One way or another; ultimately, one always looks at the back of the next runner. It is a relay race, a cabaret that has long failed to mobilize the citizens. The stage for protesting has passed.

The real unrest among the administrators, therefore, does not stem from the so-called societal challenges. The real panic strikes due to the sudden realization that AI as a tool unmasks the very purpose of running laps. While the runners on the track toil for their lap times, the stands empty. The citizen no longer sits watching, but shares knowledge, draws inspiration from AI, and simply turns their back on politics as irrelevant. The ‘major challenges’ turn out to be ordinary management issues; the real challenge is the looming irrelevance of the entire political theater.

Yet this unmasking does not lead to a hard break or active revolution. There is no question of coercion in our culture. The Binnenhof belongs to the Netherlands, just like the King and a beer with a guitar in the park. The Hague still embodies us, but the nature of the fascination has changed. What binds the citizen and the politician today is existential doubt about AI: will it cost jobs, and will unattainable new structures emerge?

It is precisely in that uncertainty that the Binnenhof becomes the ultimate equalizer. The citizen watches with fascination as politics attempts to set up ‘centrifuge lines’ around AI, while the technology mercilessly ‘cancels’ its own ideological ambitions. Shooting oneself in the foot: If AI writes policy and calculates scenarios more efficiently than an entire ministry, the purpose of traditional representative democracy is the first thing to disappear.

The citizen fearing for their own job sees live on television how those in power are confronted with exactly the same irrelevance. The mystique of power dissolves.

With this, the Binnenhof has been transformed into the highest form of reality TV. It no longer has any direct utility for the future, but it does entertain. We watch the melting process of the system just as we watch a good series. There is no revolution with a bang; the system dissolves into the soft landing of total entertainment value, while the citizens absorb the technology into their own culture.

And now, with a sharp mind and thoughts in order: put on your boots and head to the barn. The cows won’t wait for the outcome of the centrifuge. Get to work for today!

This article cannot be interpreted as an attack on a politician, nor understood as a complete denial of the usefulness of a parliament and its right of representation of the citizens in a democracy. It is understandable that representatives are losing sleep because centuries-old forms of government and associated transitional structures are being shattered, while not even a start has been made on an integration model in which the AI and the elected representative must play a major role in conjunction.

Lyrically, the song ‘Sound of Silence’ written by Paul Simon was triggered by a growing sense of isolation that Simon felt as a young adult in the early 1960s. He noted that the themes didn’t stem from a specific, singular tragedy, but rather from a general observation of the world around him and his reading material at Queens College.

Reclaiming introspection in a society addicted to noise and superficial connections.

“Hello darkness, my old friend.”

For decades, we have sung these words as a melancholic ballad. But my interpretation suggests something far more urgent. This isn’t a song about loneliness; it is the anthem of the solitary thinker who consciously turns away from the hollow noise of a consumer-driven society to find solace in the introspective silence of the night.

The darkness isn’t a void; it is a “friend.” It represents reliable, grounded introspection. It is only in the absence of the world’s glare that the thinker can see the cracks in the foundation.

The Worship of the Neon God

The most chilling image in the song is the “neon god” that the people made.

“And the people bowed and prayed / To the neon god they made”

In 1964, this might have been television or advertising. Today, it is the black mirror in our pockets. The “neon light” symbolizes an addiction to superficial stimuli—a collective hypnosis where we mistake the dazzle of commerce for the light of wisdom. This is the illusion of progress: a crowd demanding “more,” driven by an economic engine that fears silence because silence allows for questioning.

Talking Without Speaking

The thinker walks through a “canyon of a cold cathedral”—a metaphor for our empty, echoing modernity—and observes a paradox:

• People talking without speaking.
• People hearing without listening.

This is the ultimate critique of conformism. It is communication stripped of connection, a society engaging in the transaction of words without the exchange of soul. We share data, we consume content, but we do not listen.

The Prophecy on the Subway Walls

When the independent thinker tries to disrupt this trance, shouting that “silence like a cancer grows,” he is ignored. The tragedy of the song is that the truth isn’t found in the spotlight or the pulpit; it is found in the gutters.

“The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls / And tenement halls”

Real wisdom is marginalized, scratched into the dirt by the forgotten, while the masses continue to worship the light that blinds them.

A Warning From 1964

Paul Simon wrote this in the shadow of the Kennedy assassination and the rising alienation of the 1960s. As critics like Richie Unterberger have noted, it is a lament for a culture that has become deaf to its own humanity.

The “thinker” in the song is not a passive observer. He attempts to warn us. He tries to break the spell. But in the end, the “sounds of silence”—the echo of apathy and consumption—drown him out.

Don’t just hear the melody. Listen to the warning.