The Hyggelig Journey

It is once more that time of year — the season for gathering documents, for preparing the annual offering to the revenue gods. Tedious, draining, bureaucratic. Yes, all of that. But it is also a curious interval of observation, a quiet adjustment of memory’s lens. After all, the past year — or at least its more tangible husk — lies partially inscribed in these papers. I say partially, for what is captured on the page is a witness of uneven fidelity. Absent are the details, the reasons, the delicate chain of responsibility. The numbers are all there: the income, the transactions, the movement of capital. But backstage remains hidden — the weight of effort, the hush of a conscience at peace. What is left is a pale suggestion of something more vital — this elusive current we call money. Energy transmuted, but only faintly traceable. A flicker of something once vivid, now flattened by ink and deadlines. And so I sift through the papers. Not merely to comply, but to remember. To...

Pain arrives without ceremony. It does not send letters, nor does it announce itself. It simply happens. One moment, life is as it was; the next, pain is there, seated in the room, occupying space we never granted it. First, the shock. Then, a silence heavy with echoes. And finally, the inevitable question: what now? They say something can emerge from this — a transformation, a quiet and imperceptible growth. Calhoun and Tedeschi (2006) call it post-traumatic growth. A fine name, full of science. But the truth is, it is not a matter of choice. Growth does not come because we wish it to; it comes because, unnoticed, something begins to shift. One day, in the midst of an ordinary routine, the taste of coffee feels fuller, the wind brushes against the skin in a way it never did before. The pain is still there, but it has taken a different shape. Perhaps this is what they call wisdom. Some emerge from the fire with a newfound reverence for life — a quiet astonishment at having ...

The patient entered, draped in their finest attire, as though fabric alone could mend the fractures time had inscribed upon the body. There was something deliberate in the way they carried themselves, an unspoken belief that dignity could be preserved through careful presentation. The pressed linen, the impeccable cut of the fabric, the way the collar sat just so — none of it was accidental. Their makeup — poised, restrained — was not vanity but a quiet act of defiance against the slow erosion of time. And when they spoke, their voice carried the measured cadence of a life spent selecting words with care. It was polished, deliberate, softened by the patience that only years can bestow. Yet beneath this cultivated poise, the body bore the weight of too many summers. It had known heat and fatigue, had stretched itself across decades, and had grown accustomed to carrying burdens both visible and unseen. A body that understood, without resistance, the quiet art of endurance. Th...

Exhausted. That was the abiding sentiment as I closed the final patient file of the day. My hand brushed against my bag with the air of a man signing his own eviction, and I set off, making my way out of the consulting room. I trudged forward as though bearing my own coffin, lost in thought. The day had been fruitful. Those who arrived in pain departed unburdened, and those who had lost their sense of purpose returned home as if waving to the sea — only to find the sea waving back. And yet, why was I so utterly spent? Perhaps my hands ached, robbing me of action. Perhaps I granted myself the right to claim the prize — the heavy trophy — of one who had made a difference. But none of it truly mattered. Sometimes, weariness alone suffices — a quiet reminder of life passing by. After all, every mark left upon the world carves its consequence into the skin.

Machado de Assis once wrote, “There is no joy that does not pay alimony to sadness.” The saying lingers — a quiet murmur of inevitability — as though every moment of happiness were merely an advance on some future sorrow, a loan taken out against the certainty of loss. But what if it were the other way around? What if sadness, inexorable as it may seem, were not a price to be paid, but rather the fleeting shadow cast by a joy that always, in time, finds its way back? Life does not unfold in debts and punishments. There is no great celestial ledger where laughter is weighed against tears, no unseen hand ensuring that every happiness must be counterbalanced with sorrow. What there is, instead, is movement — a rhythm, a cycle, a perpetual ebb and flow. Warmth and cold, presence and absence, elation and stillness. Sadness does not arrive as a debt collector; it arrives as a tide, shifting the landscape, reshaping the contours of who we are. It strips away the old, makes sp...

The patient entered with a sigh, shaking his head. It had been a difficult day — nothing had gone to plan, which, in all fairness, seemed to be exactly the kind of plan the day had in mind. Expectations had fallen like dominoes, except that dominoes at least fall in an orderly fashion. His pulse flickered between breaths, rapid but uncertain, as if caught between deciding whether to panic or simply give up and take a nap. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, its rhythm filling the room, steady and indifferent, the perfect background score for existential crises everywhere. The consulting room, usually a space of quiet refuge, felt different today, as though the storm had followed him inside. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked clothes and the unspoken weight of things not quite said. The rain drummed against the window, tracing long streaks on the glass, as if jotting down notes on the conversation yet to unfold. He sat down heavily, his body sagging into th...

It was an ordinary morning, one of those where the light slants through the window, turning the air into a suspended promise. What moves me today? What moved me yesterday? These questions swirl around me like restless phantoms, whispering answers only to vanish into the ether, resisting answers altogether. Yet, something lingers — an invisible thread, a latent desire to cling to a motive. Because without motive, who are we? Perhaps it is hunger. That primal, essential hunger gnawing at the body, bending the world before a hot plate of food. An instinct that drives us before thought even takes shape. Hunger is not just for sustenance; it is for life itself, for survival, for the next breath, the next step forward. Or perhaps it is fear. Fear of what? Of not being seen, of being seen too much, of existing without leaving a mark. Fear shrinks us yet protects us. Hunger and fear — so primal, so alive, as old as time itself. They guide us in the shadows, shaping our choices before we even...

One day, something I wrote ended up somewhere unexpected. It travelled unbidden, without direction, without a map. It drifted through the digital ether, carried by unseen currents, until it landed on the screen of someone I had never met. It lingered there, silent — perhaps unnoticed, perhaps read and forgotten in an instant. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. I am not an influencer, nor a teacher, nor the bearer of any particular cause. I don’t chase trends or craft strategies. I write simply because I must — because the moment demands it, because something stirs within me and insists on being set free. But social networks are fickle creatures — like shifting winds, unpredictable and untamed. One day, they carry you far; the next, they bury you in obscurity. Their algorithms are vast, faceless voids — spinning, swallowing, indifferent. You cast a word into them, and it vanishes without a trace. You cast another, and inexplicably, it crosses an ocean. Many try to ch...

The evil they do to me does not harm me, for it is not the pain imposed by another that defines me. Pain is fleeting, transient, a passing ripple in the vast river of time. It may sting in the moment, but it dissolves into the past, becoming nothing more than a distant echo. What truly transforms me is the evil I choose to commit, for it is my own actions that carve the contours of my being. I am not shaped by what is done to me, but by how I respond, internalize, and allow it to influence my path. And so I observe. I watch the silent unfolding of existence, where men drift like shadows against the walls they have built themselves, prisoners of their own design. They believe themselves bound by fate, yet it is their own fear that keeps them shackled. The weight of harm is not in the hands of another — it rests in the choices we make, in the decisions we allow to shape us. A wound is but a whisper against the skin, a fleeting reminder of a moment that has passed. A mark that...

Acupuncture harmonises the body and mind, fostering mental clarity and emotional maturity. These benefits naturally support three fundamental pillars of human and social progress: understanding the world, self-reflection, and transforming knowledge into action. As a result, acupuncture patients often distinguish themselves in society, developing a broader perspective, making more conscious choices, and maintaining a balanced approach to life. The first pillar centres on expanding knowledge and deepening understanding of the world. Those who actively seek learning overcome limitations and drive transformation. However, stress and emotional burdens can obstruct this process, making it difficult to absorb new information and think critically. This ancient practice alleviates tension, improves mental clarity, and enhances cognitive receptiveness, allowing the mind to fully embrace new ideas and innovations. By fostering a sense of openness, acupuncture helps individuals perceiv...

Letting go of what troubles the heart is never easy. Resentment, remorse, ingratitude, and moral suffering impose themselves — their weight a scourge upon the senses, making life seem strewn with thorns. Yet, in truth, no one passes through life untouched by inner turmoil. It is a universal language, woven into every existence. Strength of character, kindness, and understanding are never effortless; they are the result of conscious striving. The peace you carry does not arise from never feeling despair, but from mastering the ability not to be consumed by it. When a person realises this — that their journey has been shaped by hard-won victories leading to this very moment — obstacles still unsettle, but suffering loses its grip. Few pause to reflect on their own virtues while acknowledging their shadows, even selectively. The danger lies in failing to recognise one's own willpower and determination — for when these are overlooked, the shadows grow and obscure the way fo...

When we stop to think about the direction our lives take, the first thought that often comes to mind is that many things could have been different. This is natural and an important reflection to have. It is entirely understandable to want to leave behind a meaningful legacy that represents who we are. Many people express this desire through the legitimate pursuit of a good home, a loving family, a car in the driveway, and so on. This is all perfectly normal. However, none of these things necessarily guarantee happiness or self-fulfilment. Ambition can be a useful emotion, of course, particularly when it concerns survival or comfort. The problem arises when a person becomes an insatiable hunter — forgetting to truly share life with others. It is striking how often those who have so much end up feeling as if they have nothing — despite a successful career, a brand-new car, and an esteemed academic background. On the other hand, some people find abundance in having little — pe...

Now that the light at the end of the tunnel is finally visible, the mind wavers between hope and imbalance. Many have fallen victim to the syndemic, and many have survived, yet the scars will remain in humanity’s history for years to come. Recognising this is crucial because, in the years ahead, many will experience uncertainty. The fear that COVID-19 may leave lasting after-effects will be the subject of intense research. However, this is neither the first nor the last time humanity has undergone a collective rupture from normality. The difference is that you have witnessed it firsthand and will carry the critical perspective of someone who has lived through uncertainty. More than ever, we will celebrate life, yet among us will remain a lingering sense of sorrow, melancholy, and indignation that will take time to fade. Pain becomes history’s pages, while times of peace and tranquillity are only truly remembered by those who have seen the worst and learned to recognise t...