Identity in Atoms – Led Zeppelin, Gladsaxe, and Star Trek

Have you ever walked out of a movie theater and felt unsure of who you are?

In those moments, it’s not just the contrast between light and darkness you encounter — but something deeper. As if you’ve visited a foreign story, pushing your own into the background.

On a Tuesday evening, I stepped into the oldest cinema in town. Despite some minor renovations, the spirit of past decades was still palpable. Film reels had long given way to digital, but there were still no IMAX screens, and only two movie options. The merciful simplicity of choice felt luxurious in a world drowning in options. Ten or so rows of seats, none reclining. A paper ticket.

Time dimmed — in more ways than one. The film transported me to an era before I was born. From the speakers echoed John Bonham’s memory of his first concert with Led Zeppelin:

"It was like from another world. Like a sign from above."

It’s almost absurd to think that one of the greatest bands in rock history began the journey Bonham described — and the documentary depicted — in a school gym in Gladsaxe, a suburb of Copenhagen. Far from home, far from arena lights and seas of lighters. Just a stage, barely a stage, wild haircuts, and a bunch of unsuspecting Danish teens, clueless they were witnessing the birth of music history and the rise of rock gods.

Over 40 years later, I too ended up in the same area. Not as a rock star, but to teach a Wednesday afternoon yoga class at a local company. Among teachers, company gigs were often coveted for brutally mundane reasons — not because they were a “sign from above.” More like a much-needed deposit in the bank account.

Still, sitting in the dim theater, watching Gladsaxe’s rock history brush up against my own, far humbler storyline, I began to grasp what Bonham meant.

There are moments when everything clicks. A channel opens. A sign from above hits home. In those moments, the “I” disappears — and all that’s left is the experience itself, without an observer, without thought or interpretation.

Reality, happening before anyone has time to think about it.

But if the “I” can vanish so easily, how real was it to begin with?

Who remembers you?

Led Zeppelin’s music still plays and touches people, decades after Bonham’s death and the band’s breakup. High school kids still wear their T-shirts — even if their parents weren’t born yet when the band played their final show.

Time hasn’t buried the magic that started in Gladsaxe — on the contrary, something timeless seems to carry on, even though the maker is gone.

Old photographs live in the same way.

A few years ago, I flipped through photo albums left behind by my grandmother, filled with faded faces. Some had names and dates written on them, most had nothing. Family and sibling portraits in geometric rows, milestone birthdays behind crimson rose bouquets, and the grey shadows of November funerals — all carrying a desperate need to remember those we loved. A need to ensure happy moments wouldn’t vanish.

I paused at the unfamiliar faces who had once meant everything to someone. I realized there was no one left who could fill in the missing names or stories. All that remained were faces — without names, without voices, without stories, without memory.

If everything were wiped away — if you didn’t remember your own story, everything that makes you who you are — who would you be then?

Actor Jim Carrey once described a moment when he realized he could slip into a new role — and let go of the old one — at any time. The fundamental question for him was: Who am I, if the role can change whenever I choose?

Maybe we all do the same. We hold on to the story we call “me” — even if it’s just a role that happened to stick.

But there are moments when the story vanishes — with no final encore, no applause.

In deep sleep, we forget our names, our history, our duties — even the fact that we exist. And yet we don’t suffer. Quite the opposite — we wake up refreshed, as if we’d touched something essential.

According to neuroscience, the brain areas linked to self-awareness and identity quiet down almost completely. And yet something remains.

In Buddhist philosophy, deep sleep is seen as a silent return to original awareness. In yogic philosophy, it proves that the self can’t be the stream of thoughts, memories, or sensations — because they disappear, while the background vibration, that silent awareness behind everything, does not.

Maybe the question isn’t who was in the faded photo — but that someone was. The self is like a photograph: briefly bright, gradually fading — and ultimately, not as absolutely real as we often believe.

Could deep sleep be an example of a fleeting return to what never changes? The “I” disappears, but existence without a story remains.

What if you’re not really you?

A longtime teacher of mine once said something I’ve repeated ever since — probably to the annoyance of others more than to my own benefit:

"Whatever is yours, is not you."

An even longer-standing favorite of mine, the series Star Trek, takes this idea and literally disassembles it atom by atom. What really happens when crew members are transported from place to place? When a body is broken down and reconstructed elsewhere, does the person move — or is a copy created? A clone? Or something else entirely?

It’s a known identity paradox, also called the Ship of Theseus: if all the parts of a ship are replaced, is it still the same ship?

And what about us? When our bodies renew themselves on a cellular level over the years — are we physiological copies, clones, or ever-emerging versions of ourselves?

What holds our sense of self together? Was it ever truly whole or stable?

Maybe I’m a kind of copy. And so are you.

My experience now is surely very different from the person who used to pedal through the Gladsaxe winds on Wednesdays. (A Danish specialty: in my experience, headwind in both directions.)

Back then, pushing against the wind, I couldn’t have understood what Bonham meant in quite the same way.

“Like a sign from above” may not have pointed to a moment that mattered because it started something — but to one so stripped of everything else — thoughts, stories, interpretations — that nothing else existed.

And maybe that’s exactly why Led Zeppelin’s music still resonates, like everything that stands the test of time. Not because it reminds us of something past, but because it was born in a space free of excess — no thoughts, no interpretations, no story.

The same happens in deep sleep — and at its best, even while awake. When names, titles, self-evaluation, and mental boxes vanish, spontaneous moments arise in which life truly touches us.

I stepped out of the theater. Outside, nothing had seemingly changed. The familiar parade of cars, March winds blowing. People tapped on their phones, each with important tasks and destinations.

I was “me” again. Or at least the one I call me.

But for a moment, somewhere between light and darkness, something cracked. The story and the memories faded. And for that reason, everything felt more real than usual.

The deepest peace isn’t found in discovering the right story — but in no longer building the self on things that are bound to disappear.

Who would you be without your memories and your story?
Without you.