In the spring morning of 2008, a yoga mat was left empty in – but perhaps, right there, someone had already arrived. Years later, the ferry kept crossing the same route, like a question that never tires. The hum of the engine room, the words of the Beatles, and the chaos of being human wove together – as if to remind us that striving itself may keep the journey unfinished. And spring turned into summer, unnoticed, leaving behind a smile that kept on living.

The static in Twin Peaks revealed that the ordinary was never just ordinary. Queen’s chorus repeated itself until meaning wore thin — and in that exhaustion, something deeper broke through. Perhaps life is like a radio: we only turn the dial, sometimes into static, sometimes into clarity. And when the mind’s duties and stories quiet down, another signal is heard — lighter, clearer, closer. A hum without source. Even now.

The screen went dark, but the projector’s light remained. Dust floated in the beam, as if past scenes were still hanging in the air. Popcorn crumbs in the fold of my trousers, the wind humming like a projector, passersby moving as if inside their own scenes. Moments slipped into one another, the edges between story and reality blurred. And yet, behind it all, there seemed to be something that doesn’t fade—something quiet, like the projector’s light that needs no story, yet gives birth to them all.

A yoga studio in Copenhagen, mornings in Koh Samui, full rooms in Cape Town, courses across Europe, and winters in India. The elements of a dream seemed to fall into place. But sometimes, a story that has carried you for years begins to quietly dissolve—and you find yourself back in that narrow world of metrics and roles you thought you’d left behind. Then, a real freedom can be revealed that asks for nothing more, and a success that needs no audience.

Copenhagen still smelled of sausage, sea air, and cinnamon—but my trace had already faded. The city breathed forward, as if it had never really known me. And yet, the children’s quiet wonder in the cargo bike, the shared rhythm of a crowded bus, and something unseen—like a mycelial web beneath our feet—whispered that we were still one fabric. Maybe the stardust never forgot us, even if we forgot it.

In the adrenaline of Iron Maiden’s anniversary and the hush of a yoga studio, youth and age meet like echoes from the same song. Iconic monsters, the stadium’s sweaty frenzy, and a ninety-seven-year-old’s first step onto a yoga mat reveal something that never learned the meaning of time. Maybe what grows older is only the noise—and maybe that’s why, somewhere in that mix of sweat, sound, and silence, something in us smiles.

What if the meaning of life isn’t an answer—but something like a warm cookie? Neo didn’t receive the truth from the Oracle – only a silence that stayed with him. Maybe meaning lives in the rattle of the dishwasher, when we stop trying to be more. And if no one ever saw how hard you tried, or what you achieved—could something still feel completely right, when seen from within?

What if your name, your achievements, and even your fears were forgotten? Star Trek’s android Data leads us to the threshold where opposites no longer divide—they breathe as one. Like a butterfly that exists only because it isn’t eternal. Like a heart that remembers life when all stories have gone quiet.

When zombies rise, the lawnmower finds a new purpose, and the banana turns black on an ordinary Tuesday, retreats feel far away – and yet something essential might open. Life doesn’t ask what we know, but shows what we can’t control. Maybe we’re all just substitute metalwork teachers in this strange play that doesn’t happen to you, but for you.