What led me, the rationalist, a cynic, the worst sort of individualist, who guards her privacy jealously, the person who shudders with horror at absolutes, at dogmas, to an ashram in Claxton Bay in the middle of a working week? A cluttered mind-thoughts spilling untidily everywhere, rolling into incomprehensible splodges. Fear of the march of time, too tender attachments, of meaninglessness, of living in a country where a gimmicky spiderman grabs more attention than a kidnapped child.
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