I wake. Suddenly. I’m not sure how I know but something is wrong. I’m staying at the Ananda Resort, a grisly backpackers which leaves me constantly checking my pockets every time I meet a new inmate. The flicker from the fluorescents outside cast eerie shadows on my curtains. This is the fifth night in a row I’ve woken suddenly. Each night I’ve stayed up, waiting for something to substantiate my sense of looming disaster. Each night it has failed to arrive.

Two years ago I left my wife, sold our house and tried to carry on with my life. It took a bit over a year before I realised that the married course I’d charted no longer had to be a map of my future. I quit my job, sold what few possessions I had remaining, and bought a one-way ticket to Bali. Three months later I find myself in an intensive yoga course in the Gulf of Thailand. I’m not quite sure how I ended up here but when you buy a one-way ticket to Asia, the point isn’t to end up where you expected.

It’s morning and as I stretch I realise that the last thing I remember is a pair of eyes staring down at me from above the bed. As my body responds with panic, I realise that there is actually no fear associated with the memory. In fact if anything there is a sense of warm comfort, almost peace.

Shaking myself awake, I stumble into the bathroom. With the cold water pouring down my back I’m struggling to make sense of what is going on. What have I imagined? It certainly doesn’t feel like a dream, the green eyes still float vividly in front of me when I recall the memory.

The school I’m attending warned us all about purification effects, that strange things can happen as you begin eating, living and thinking in new ways. This is not what I expected.

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