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.

What if youth isn’t a prize, and aging isn’t a loss—but a quiet lightening? Iron Maiden’s anniversary, iconic monsters, the sweaty stadium frenzy, and a 97-year-old’s first step onto a yoga mat reveal something that never grows old. Maybe the deepest part of us doesn’t know time at all. Maybe that’s why something in us smiles when we stop trying so hard.

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 nothing was ever truly your choice? The cracks in The Truman Show lead to a moment where freedom isn’t born from choosing—but from the quieting of stories. Like a body exhaling when everything unnecessary is gone. Like a whisper that remembers you, even when you forget yourself.

What if you no longer remembered your name, your achievements, or your fears? Star Trek’s android Data leads us to a place where life doesn’t exist between two opposites–but in the space where they breathe together. Like a butterfly that exists only because it isn’t eternal. Like a heart that recognizes life when all stories have fallen away.

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.

When Indian nights give way to a Danish living room, the seasons disappear — and so do I. Lost in Translation offers no answers, only an in-between. Maybe it’s right after jet lag and a night of chai stalls in Karnataka that you notice it most clearly: sometimes what speaks the loudest is what can’t be named. No story, no name — just a breathing moment.

The beginning of yoga wasn’t a decision, but a direction I had to follow. The silence and chaos of India, the most beautiful street in Frederiksberg, invitations from around the world, and a return to my roots without a map led toward a space where doing and tradition fall away — and the journey begins to slowly rewrite me. Perhaps the search was, from the very start, a form of forgetting.