When a football rolls freely and a single whistle sparks a national crisis, a child plays without a goal, and life refuses to follow a script. In Koh Samui, the morning began with news about Bowie — and something stirred inside. Blackstar doesn’t explain itself, but felt like a secret message from the other side. Maybe planning life was never the most important thing after all.

Could your most meaningful act be completely pointless – without any thought of benefit or goals? Forrest Gump ran for over three years, John Taylor played to an audience of eight, a C cassette hissed and occasionally broke – and it was all enough. Maybe life is more like sculpture: removing the excess, not adding more.

Who would you be without your memories and your story? Rock history was made in Gladsaxe, Star Trek shattered the foundation of our identity into atoms – and deep sleep wiped everything away. Perhaps we are not who we remember ourselves to be – but what remains when everything else is forgotten?

The night ferry rocks on the Baltic Sea. In the karaoke lounge, “My Heart Will Go On” plays for the fourth time – the wrong key, but the right emotion. Duty-free carts rattle, shrimp and meatballs find a shared rhythm at the buffet. The cabin, beyond the reach of Wi-Fi, reminds of something often forgotten. Perhaps it’s here, in the middle of the sensory flood, that silence begins to feel truly real for the first time.

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.