The Hyggelig Journey

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What Winter Asks

Lately, I’ve found myself anticipating winter — not because it is here, but because its presence has begun to register. A shift in tone. A quiet deviation from the familiar. We are still within autumn, yes, but the pattern is clear: a cooling, a thinning of light, a withdrawal. Winter does not arrive with grandeur. It infiltrates. It operates in intervals — a guest that does not overstay, yet rearranges the room all the same. It brings with it not only the chill, but a quiet audit of our habits. Our homes, designed for air and openness, falter in the face of this visitor. We adjust. Coats reappear. Blankets are retrieved from high places. Improvisation becomes method: Havaianas with woollen socks. Soup, made not only to nourish but to ground. This is where hygge emerges — not as aesthetic, but as principle. The deliberate act of creating warmth within transience. A structured comfort, built from attentiveness. Outside, clouds obscure the light. Inside, a countermeasure: sof...

On slowing time: multivitamins, acupuncture, and the art of ageing well

A major randomised, double-blind, placebo-controlled trial, recently published, has demonstrated that daily multivitamin supplementation may decelerate biological ageing, as assessed by epigenetic markers. Conducted by researchers at Columbia University and Brigham and Women’s Hospital, the study followed over 2,200 participants aged sixty and above for a period of two years, evaluating the long-term effects of daily micronutrient intake. Epigenetic age — distinct from chronological age — was estimated via DNA methylation, a biomarker increasingly recognised for its accuracy in gauging biological ageing. The results revealed a marked slowing of this process among those receiving the multivitamin: on average, participants exhibited approximately two years less biological ageing when compared with their counterparts in the placebo group. These findings lend weight to the hypothesis that subtle yet chronic micronutrient deficiencies may hasten the ageing process, even in the a...

Ten Voices, One Silence

There were ten of them — though at times they spoke as one murmuring voice, and at others, like ten distinct silences, each fractured differently by the strain of being. They were not chosen as idols for a shelf, nor as exhibits in some canonical museum. Rather, they happened to me — each arriving, unbidden, during the long, luminous solitude of study. They were not so much read as endured, not so much admired as absorbed. What they gave me was not knowledge, but permission — to question, to unravel, to dwell within the unsayable. Sophocles carved fate into stone. He gave suffering a chorus and lent blindness a voice. In his tragedies, destiny is not an event but a law — impersonal, inescapable. His characters do not fall because they err, but because they exist. He was the architect of inevitability. Through him, I grasped that form can contain anguish without flinching. Dante Alighieri descended, and rose again. His Divine Comedy traced the arc of the soul with a pilgrim’...

To Stand With Others

There was always a door. Not wide, not narrow — simply there, as doors tend to be. People filed through it in decent clothes and decent thoughts, offering each other smiles approved by custom and time. I watched from a few paces off, not out of defiance, but because something in me paused. They said I could enter, if I wished. It would only cost a nod, a small silence, a looking away. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to fit in. Just enough to be invited to the right tables and clapped on the back by the right hands. But there were others — figures without names, without ease, the sort who carry their whole lives in their eyes. They were not welcome. Not at that table. Not beyond that door. And I, for reasons I could never quite translate into speech, could not leave them behind. So I stayed outside. Not with banners, not with noise — only with presence. They say one must choose: to be included by excluding, or excluded by including. I made my peace with the latter. It is quiet...

In the Grip Again

I’ve had dengue. Once more, it has graced me with its unwelcome presence — the second such visitation, and one I could well have done without. The fever was mercifully mild, hardly worth noting. But the itching — dear God, the itching — it was as though my entire being were begging to be scratched. Hands, feet, even the genitals clamoured in unison, each demanding attention with a kind of maddening urgency. Unlike the first bout, there was no dramatic onset to herald the illness. No high temperatures, no conspicuous pain. It was the pruritus alone — insistent and unrelenting — that finally betrayed the virus’s return. I worked through the week in stoic ignorance, chalking up the fatigue to the usual flurry of daily demands. I was, perhaps, a touch more irritable than usual; my thinking occasionally stumbled, like a foot catching the edge of a rug. Yet in the absence of fever and with joint pain too faint to raise suspicion, I all but overlooked the presence of the disease. ...

Just Another Tuesday

I once asked a friend why he’d caused such a scene at a wedding — there’d been raised voices, a shattered glass, and an impromptu dance in the midst of someone’s speech. All rather out of character for a man usually so measured. His response caught me off guard. He gave a small shrug, his gaze drifting somewhere beyond the present, and said, quite plainly, — It was one of those things, you know? As if that were explanation enough. As if certain disturbances belonged to a category all their own — needing neither justification nor regret. I said nothing. There was, I sensed, a quiet truth in his words. Sometimes life swells beneath the surface, and when it finds no proper channel, it bursts forth — in laughter, in tears, in chaos — at a wedding, or on some otherwise forgettable Tuesday.