THEO JAN

We often think of success as a well-marked road, but true mastery begins when the path disappears. You know you are on your true path when the maps of others no longer guide you and you are, quite literally, "lost on purpose". It is in this space—without a pre-defined trail—that your own unique journey truly begins.

The video features a poetic reminder for moments of uncertainty: 

“What do I do when I’m lost in a forest? Stand still.”

. When we feel directionless, our instinct is to move faster, but there is power in stillness. The trees and the bushes around you are not lost; they are exactly where they are meant to be. By standing still, you acknowledge that you are part of a larger ecosystem that already knows your location.

Rather than fighting to find your way, the philosophy is to "let it find you". Practicing with a katana by the sea represents this surrender to the present. The blade moves not to reach a destination, but to express a state of being. When you stop chasing the "where," you become fully grounded in the "now".

Just as the border between two nations is an invisible line, the line between being "lost" and "found" is often just a shift in perspective. In the video, the rhythmic motion of the sword against the horizon serves as a reminder that you are always exactly where you need to be—provided you are present enough to realize it.

Finding Your Center: The Pathless Path at the Baltic Sea

Part 2: NBA Hype, GTA Streets, and the Chaos of Los Angeles

After everything I experienced before, I had one clear realization:

The randomness. The chaos. The beauty. The danger. The side quests popping up every five minutes.

So I decided — if I’m here, I’m going all in.

Lakers vs. Nuggets — Welcome to the Main Server

I saw there was an NBA playoff game: Lakers vs. Nuggets.

Without overthinking it, I went straight to the arena — Crypto.com Arena — and bought a ticket.

At first, I thought, “Yeah, cool, just a basketball game.”

LeBron James plays here.
Nikola Jokić plays here.

This isn’t just basketball. This is the NBA.

Coming from Lithuania, basketball is basically religion. EuroLeague games, packed arenas, passionate fans. I wanted to see the difference.

In EuroLeague, music plays during breaks. Timeouts. Between quarters.

LeBron starts attacking the rim — and suddenly some Matrix-type soundtrack starts blasting in the background. Dramatic. Cinematic. Like he’s about to save the world.

But when they hype the attack with movie-level soundtrack and then he misses?

Still — the production value is insane. It feels bigger. More theatrical. More entertainment-driven.

I walk maybe 10–20 meters from the arena.

Street vendors banging metal tongs on carts yelling about hot dogs. Crowds forming out of nowhere. Energy still buzzing.

Some random dude runs toward a kid and does a full backflip over him.

“This is the most American thing I’ve ever seen.”

Earlier that same day, I decided to try something people told me was impossible.

Everyone said:
“You need residency.”
“You need a Social Security number.”
“It’s impossible.”

I walked into Bank of America, explained my situation honestly…

And I walked out thinking about one word:

Most of the time, people don’t actually know if something is impossible. They just repeat what they’ve heard.

Worst case? They tell you to get the fuck out.

Best case? You walk out with a bank account.

Maybe 99 out of 100 times it doesn’t work.

Another day, I went to Long Beach to ride jet skis.

But what stayed with me wasn’t the speed.

It was seeing random things floating in the ocean. A boot. A can. Just… objects.

Even the water felt like part of the GTA server.

I decided to take the public bus to Long Beach.

But the bus? That’s the real experience.

How do you not have a home but you have five dogs? That’s a side quest I still don’t understand.

Then a woman gets on with a stroller. She’s extremely nervous.

“Can you watch it? Can you watch it?” she keeps asking the bus driver.

When you see drunk people or drug addicts, at least you understand the logic.

One time, I was waiting for the metro and I heard literal zombie noises behind me.

A guy is coming down the escalator holding a damaged metal bat. Hoodie up. I can only see his mouth. His body moving like a broken NPC.

Security tries flashing a lighter at him to distract him.

Another evening, near my hotel, I lock eyes with another guy.

In 10 days, I tried to explore as much as possible.

Los Angeles: NBA Hype, GTA Streets, and the Chaos of Los Angeles

Los Santos Was Real: My First 24 Hours in Los Angeles

That was the mission. See both sides of the world. Experience the extremes.

But planning? Planning never ends. You prepare, and prepare, and prepare… and somehow you never go.

And of course, life happened. Work. Projects. Excuses. Time passing.

Until the universe slapped me through Instagram.

No plan. No structure. No real preparation. Just instinct.

Ten days in America — my first time ever leaving Europe.

From Vilnius to Copenhagen. Copenhagen to Los Angeles.

While waiting at the gate, I saw an American family near me. A little kid looked around the airport and said:

“No way… you can go to Los Angeles from this place?”

“Cash Is King” — and I Took It Literally

I landed in Los Angeles and called an Uber.

And here’s where my European brain showed itself.

I’d heard the phrase “cash is king,” so I thought: 

He didn’t even try to be subtle. He looked at me like I was walking around with a sign that said 

“Yo man… be careful. That’s a lot of money. You can get robbed.”

I booked a hotel in Downtown Los Angeles with basically zero research. No clue about neighborhoods, no clue about anything.

I dropped my luggage, put on my sunglasses, and stepped outside like, 

A woman, maybe 40 or 50, wrapped in a blanket, standing on the corner, shouting and rocking back and forth like her body was stuck in a loop.

My face stayed calm — but my eyes were screaming.

A man lying on the sidewalk under a blanket yelling:

A guy walks up like it’s the most normal thing in the world:

Los Santos wasn’t fiction. It was a zip code.

Overwhelmed — in the Best and Worst Way

Skyscrapers. Flags. Sirens. People. Noise. Energy.

I’d never seen anything like it, not in real life. My brain was trying to process it all at once and failing.

I did the practical stuff: SIM card, supplies, basics.

And then I started building my “I’m in L.A., so I have to” list.

Hollywood. Walk of Fame. Bruce Lee’s star. Beverly Hills. Santa Monica. Venice Beach. The Hollywood Hills.

Not because I wanted to collect tourist points — but because I had limited time and I wanted to feel the city from every angle.

When I got to Santa Monica, it was this weird moment of déjà vu.

I’m standing there looking at the pier, the amusement park, the beach… and my brain goes:

And I know that sounds ridiculous, but it felt like the game had copied real life too accurately, or real life had copied the game. Either way, it messed with my head.

The “Japanese” Man Who Wasn’t Japanese

I’m standing there, just staring at everything, thinking 

And this older man walks straight up to me — Japanese-looking, maybe 70 years old, homeless vibe, weathered face, the whole thing.

“Yo man… why Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor?”

And somehow… I started explaining World War II. Alliances. Blockades. Geopolitics. All of it.

Halfway through I caught myself thinking:

Why the fuck am I explaining WWII to a random guy on Santa Monica Pier?

Then I tried to pivot into philosophy. I asked if he knew ikigai.

He’s from South America — Chile or Argentina, I don’t remember which. His father was Japanese. He didn’t speak Japanese at all.

The whole exchange felt like a side quest that unlocked itself without my consent.

Hollywood: Bruce Lee, Hustlers, and a Performance Worth Paying For

I went to the Hollywood Walk of Fame because I wanted one star specifically.

That was the one I needed to see in person.

But right next to all that Hollywood energy, there were guys doing the classic CD hustle:

But the thing is — I didn’t even care, because they were entertaining. It was like street improv theater.

Two guys tag-teaming sentences like ping-pong, reading me, keeping the rhythm going, making me laugh. I knew what it was… but the performance was good.

And one of them started throwing out Lithuanian names — specific Lithuanian names — the kind you don’t casually guess.

Los Angeles: Living Inside a GTA Server

The funny thing about climbing Mount Fuji is that, at first, it didn’t seem that serious.

I was walking with a group, observing people around me, and thinking about how we understand difficulty by comparison. If something looks manageable for others, we assume it will be manageable for us too.

That’s when I saw a family climbing toward the summit of Mount Fuji. Two small kids — maybe five or six years old — hiking up the same trail as the rest of us.

Well, if they’re taking their kids, it can’t be that hard.

What I didn’t consider was that maybe the family was simply built differently. Or maybe just a little bit crazy.

Because those kids? They were flying up the mountain. Infinite energy. Like little mountain goats. And there I was, a grown man, thinking: 

There is no way I’m losing to a five-year-old.

I’ve served in the military. I’ve marched insane distances with heavy packs. I’ve been dehydrated, exhausted, pushed to limits most people never touch. Long walks? No problem.

But here’s the truth: every situation is different.

Climbing a mountain isn’t just walking. It’s repeated full-range leg extensions at awkward angles. It’s like doing single-leg squats with your entire body weight — not 10 reps, not 20 reps — but hundreds of times over rocks and uneven terrain.

At some point around 70–75% of the way up, my legs started cramping.

I’m on Mount Fuji… and I literally cannot move.

What’s funny is that in that moment, my brain pulled something unexpected.

I remembered Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon.

There’s a scene where he’s trapped. Instead of panicking or wasting energy fighting the situation, he becomes calm. He understands that useless movement only drains strength. When the moment comes, he’ll need that energy.

Sitting there on the side of the mountain, legs locked, sunset painting the sky, I realized:

So I sat.
I breathed.
I looked at the view.

The sun was going down over Japan. The landscape below looked unreal. For 5–10 minutes, I simply existed.

From that point on, it was a strategy: walk a little, rest a little. Walk, rest. Repeat.

Eventually, I made it to the station where our group planned to sleep before the final push to the summit for sunrise.

As I was sitting on the ground earlier, recovering, I was watching people pass by. Boots, legs, hiking poles — just fragments of strangers.

Then I saw something that made my brain light up instantly.

Bright pink, with a design that looked suspiciously like Lithuanian “pink soup” — šaltibarščiai. Anyone from Lithuania knows how iconic that is.

There’s no way. This guy has to be Lithuanian.

I only saw the socks. Nothing else. But something in me just knew.

Later at the station, I was talking with an American guy. We were debating random topics when he asked where I was from. I told him Lithuania. As usual, I gave the quick geopolitical explanation: yes, NATO; yes, EU; yes, small but strong.

And then, out of nowhere, someone spoke to me in Lithuanian.

We talked. And then he said something that hit perfectly:

“I’m planning to raise the Lithuanian flag at sunrise on the summit.”

I had brought a Lithuanian historical flag myself.

Two random Lithuanians, meeting on a Japanese volcano, both planning the same symbolic act without knowing the other existed.

That’s when you realize the world is huge — and somehow very small at the same time.

After some rest, I slept in the mountain hut. When I woke up, my legs felt better. Not perfect — but functional.

The final climb to the summit took about an hour.

It was dark. Cold. Silent. You could see headlamps moving like a glowing snake up the mountain.

The sky slowly turned from black to deep blue, then orange, then gold.

Standing on the summit of Mount Fuji, watching the sunrise, holding Lithuanian flags in the wind — that moment erased every cramp, every doubt, every painful step.

It wasn’t just about climbing a mountain.

Respecting the difference between gym strength and mountain strength.

Knowing when to stop fighting and conserve energy.

And realizing that no matter where you are in the world, you might randomly find someone who thinks exactly like you.

Two Lithuanians.
One volcano.
One sunrise.

Japan: Mountain Fuji Part 2

The Mountain and the Void: Finding Mastery in Los Angeles

In my latest video filmed in the mountains overlooking Los Angeles, I explore the intersection of martial arts and internal growth. Using the nunchaku as a tool for meditation in motion, the piece reflects on the grit required to reach the highest goals of all time.

Below is a look at the philosophy behind the journey up the mountain.

Most people spend their lives chasing the "way to win," but they never learn how to accept the "way to lose". To accept defeat—or to "learn to die"—is to be liberated from the fear of failure. When you are no longer afraid of losing, you are finally free to perform with total presence.

To grow, you must first let go. This "art of dying" refers to the shedding of the ambitious mind and the old habits that hold us back. As the saying goes, in order for something new to come, something old must go. Sometimes, this means letting go of everything you thought you knew until now.

True learning requires a specific kind of humility. You must "empty the cup" and start from the beginning. By purging existing biases and ego, you become a vessel ready for new wisdom and refined skill.

The path to mastery is paved with "micro-failures". These aren't setbacks; they are an essential part of the process. When you want to reach the peak, you have to be willing to get your ass kicked all the way up that damn mountain.

The experience concludes with a transition from the intense movement of the nunchaku to a moment of stillness overlooking the city. This illustrates the balance between action and reflection—finding the "void" where the self disappears and only the practice remains.

Finding Mastery in Los Angeles The Mountain

Descending into the depths of the Blue Cave in Okinawa is more than just a dive; it is a physical manifestation of "entering the void." Much like the discipline required for nunchaku, scuba diving demands a total liberation of the mind to navigate an environment where you are, quite literally, out of your element.

Standing on the edge of the Okinawan coastline, geared with oxygen and fins, you are forced to confront the "ambitious mind." To dive safely, you must accept the reality of the deep—a place where you cannot survive without tools and trust. This is the ultimate "emptying of the cup." You leave behind the noise of the surface and sink into a world of profound silence and blue light.

In the Blue Cave, your breath becomes your primary focus. The rhythmic sound of the regulator is a constant reminder of the present moment. Much like the "art of dying" discussed in my recent training, diving requires you to let go of panic and old instincts to embrace a new way of existing. In the darkness of the cave, illuminated by a celestial blue glow from the opening, you find a harmony that only exists in the space between action and stillness.

Mastery underwater isn’t just about technical skill; it’s about how you interact with the life around you.

: Surrounded by schools of Sergeant Majors and Surgeonfish, you become part of their world rather than a spectator.

: Every movement must be deliberate. Buoyancy is a series of micro-adjustments and "micro-failures" until you find that perfect state of weightlessness.

: Encountering clownfish tucked into their anemones serves as a reminder of the intricate beauty found when we slow down and observe the world without ego.

Emerging from the Blue Cave back into the sunlight of Okinawa feels like a rebirth. You’ve "get your ass kicked" by the pressure and the elements, only to come out stronger and more centered. It is a physical journey that mirrors the spiritual one: you go down to the void to find what is truly essential.

Have you ever pushed yourself into an environment that forced you to change your perspective?

 If you'd like, I can help you create a specific set of 

 for a video edit that combines your mountain training with this underwater footage. Which would you prefer?

Japan: The Blue Cave of Okinawa

I never imagined that my first real mountain would be Mount Fuji.

I come from Lithuania—a country of forests, lakes, and flat horizons. We don’t have mountains. I had never climbed one before. I had never even felt the need to. Mountains simply weren’t part of my world.

Everything started with a conversation about extreme sports. A friend once told me that there is a kind of “trinity” in extreme experiences: skydiving, mountain climbing, and scuba diving. I had already completed the first one during my military service, when I went through airborne training and did skydiving. That left two: scuba diving and climbing a mountain.

Climbing the highest or most extreme mountain in the world was never my goal. I simply wanted to climb a legitimate mountain—one that you can point at and say, “I climbed that.”

When I planned my trip to Japan, I realized I had an opportunity to combine two goals in one journey: climb Mount Fuji and try scuba diving. It felt like the perfect chance to move closer to completing that “extreme sports trinity.”

I started thinking about timing. What would be the perfect day? The perfect symbolism? July 6th stood out immediately. In Lithuania, July 6th is Statehood Day—the day we celebrate the coronation of King Mindaugas, the first and only King of Lithuania. It’s a deeply symbolic national holiday.

What if, at sunrise, in the Land of the Rising Sun, I stood on top of Mount Fuji with the Lithuanian flag? What if I watched the sun rise in Japan—knowing that in a few hours, that same sun would reach Lithuania? I imagined myself as the first Lithuanian that day to greet the sunrise before it traveled west to my homeland.

As a Lithuanian.
As a traveler.
As a person climbing his first mountain.

Standing at the summit, holding the Lithuanian flag at sunrise—it wasn’t just about the climb anymore. It was about meaning.

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I had never climbed a mountain. I didn’t research properly. I didn’t train specifically for it. I brought the hiking boots I normally wear casually and packed regular clothes—nothing professional, nothing technical.

When I arrived at the starting point of the climb, I looked around and saw something completely different from myself. Everyone else was wearing serious hiking gear: technical jackets, trekking poles, specialized boots, headlamps, layered clothing systems.

For a moment, I wondered: Is there something wrong with me? Or are they all just overprepared?

In my mind, I thought, “It’s just a mountain. It can’t be that hard.”

Before the climb even began, I made another major mistake. The night before climbing Mount Fuji, I went to a techno club in Tokyo called VENT. It’s considered one of the best techno clubs in the city, and the event I wanted to attend was only on Friday night. My climb was on Saturday. It was the only opportunity.

At the time, it felt like a great idea—one more intense experience before the mountain.

Later, I realized how serious that mistake was.

Alcohol dehydrates you. It drains electrolytes. It disrupts your mineral balance. When you climb a mountain, especially at altitude, your body needs everything to be in optimal condition. I had unknowingly sabotaged myself before even taking the first step.

At the beginning of the climb, everything felt manageable. The incline was steep, but it was mostly cardio. My legs were strong. My breathing was controlled.

It became more technical—rocky sections, awkward angles, uneven steps. My muscles were working in different positions, under different tensions. That’s when it started.

One step. Cramp.
Three steps. Cramp.
Another section. Cramp again.

That was the moment I realized: this is serious.

The higher I climbed, the thinner the air felt. I had never experienced altitude like that before. I could feel the oxygen decreasing. Fatigue hit harder. I was sweating more, losing even more electrolytes.

At every station along the trail, I bought electrolyte drinks, trying to repair the damage. But you can’t fully restore balance while actively climbing. Real recovery requires rest. Time. Stability.

That was the beginning of my first mountain—and I was already fighting my own body.

まさか、自分にとって最初の本格的な山が富士山になるとは思ってもいませんでした。

私はリトアニア出身です。森と湖、そして平らな地平線の国です。私たちの国には山がありません。これまで一度も山に登ったことがありませんでした。そもそも登る必要性すら感じたことがなかったのです。山は私の世界の一部ではありませんでした。

すべては、ある友人との極限スポーツについての会話から始まりました。彼は、極限体験には「三位一体」があると言いました。スカイダイビング、登山、そしてスキューバダイビングです。

私はすでに最初の一つを経験していました。軍隊に所属していたとき、空挺課程でスカイダイビングを行いました。残るは二つ、ダイビングと登山です。

世界一高い山や最も過酷な山に挑戦することが目的ではありませんでした。ただ「私はあの山に登った」と言える、本物の山に登りたかったのです。

日本への旅行を計画したとき、二つの目標を一度に達成できることに気づきました。富士山に登ること、そしてダイビングに挑戦すること。それは「極限スポーツの三位一体」に近づく絶好の機会でした。

しかし、その考えはやがてより深い意味を持つようになりました。

私は日付について考え始めました。どの日が最も象徴的だろうか。7月6日がすぐに浮かびました。この日はリトアニアの建国記念日、初代国王ミンダウガスの戴冠の日です。

そして、あるイメージが頭に浮かびました。

「日の出の国」である日本で、夜明けとともに富士山の頂上に立ち、リトアニアの国旗を掲げたらどうだろう。日本で昇る太陽を見送り、その数時間後に同じ太陽が祖国リトアニアに届くと想像したのです。その日、世界で最初に夜明けを迎えるリトアニア人になれるかもしれない。

第1部：富士山頂で迎えたリトアニアの夜明け

1 dalis: Lietuviškas saulėtekis ant Fudžio kalno