I stare at the words on my laptop screen, images stare back at me. Like a 3D puzzle, it makes sense only when I stop trying to see what I know … surrender to what the image knows of me. I discern the bigger picture when my eyes learn the images in a different code. Everything I require requires something from me.

Arrival in Galle at Le Bella Inn 1912 is to a celebrity welcome. Procrastination terrifies me so, with my precrastination skills, I made this reservation four months ago. Exalted as the very first person to book a room here, it is presumed that my lucky charm energy resulted in subsequent non-stop bookings, including a dozen from South Africa where the owner has recently toured. Within five minutes I have his oath to assist me with a long term visa extension next time I am in Sri Lanka. Wise action is the path to manifestation.

For me, the first thing to do on arrival anywhere is to walk. But a sign outside proclaims that life starts after coffee. The 19-year-old waiter brings me real coffee; his t-shirt tells me that dreams only work if you do. Manifest is a verb. So, the second thing I do is walk … compelled to keep walking until my feet have drawn the maps on my body and my soul starts to recognise the terrain. Competency building to find my vibe; to dispel my demons into the cobbled roads. The difference with aging as I travel is that my inner elements require a little longer to find resonance with the outer; I need a little longer to calibrate; to integrate. If I don’t immediately do the thing I fear, I get locked in the inertia of it. A cobra recoils into its basket, its flute-playing master closes the lid. Imprisoned. The gun metal ocean tones reflect the rows of cannons of this once heavily defended island. Gun fire shoots me back to the 5-year-old desecrated by her molester on the cannon at the not so defended Durban Library.

An ancient on a bicycle delivers coconuts to Tap House across the road. LKR200 he states. Tapping into the distinction between tourist and traveller I follow the trail to the source, encouraged now to leave the confined bastion of Galle Fort and venture to the street markets. The mania of the city always calms me; slows my stride; brings me closest to my core. Traffic that makes no sense; people and dogs slipstream in flow. I join the harmonic discord. Brightly embellished fishing vessels and cats devouring discarded tails counterpoise the stench of death at the fish market. I follow a cow across a traffic circle. Vehicles mirror me. Fruits and vegetables with knobs and spikes and colours never seen in Cape Town’s aisles of homogenised produce. And king coconuts for LKR100. I get two. One young for ‘drinking’ and one mature for ‘eating, drinking’. I stroll the streets and back through the sally port still eating the flesh on arrival back at the Tap House: Cool King Coconut LKR450 affirms my mini adventure that stretches me into the edges and keeps me real. What ‘feels right’ is simply what feels familiar. When’s it’s uncomfortable—when it burns—that’s when it matters.

Forged in the fire; more beautiful for the fire; I find equilibrium in the water. But first a run—the fire of dynamic meditation to release the kundalini energy to cleanse my emotional body. I do four laps of the fort walls; each re-turn to the lighthouse exhibits another sublime perspective of the rising sun. I have my skipping rope. It strobe-lights the view and I zone out as my entire being becomes a part of my sensory experience and my cells vibrate with joy. Whereas I once I adhered to following my blisters, I now surrender to Joseph Campbell’s true adage and follow my bliss. Exorcising self sabotage is not a once-off event. Magick is a process; practice makes practice.

Writing too takes practice. The foetal heart is formed as it travels in contraction over the brain to nestle in a knot of chambers in its slotted cage in its chest. I write with my heart brain. I write until the writing writes me. Reconstructed. The Tetris Effect. 

Imagine a city where the culture isn’t about sitting down to eat or drink; where the main purpose of walking isn’t to shop. Imagine reverting to tribal culture being genuine progress, where people connect and engage over music, dance, shared experience. Where you can be normal even without an addiction. Conversations can often sound something like back and forth WhatsApp exchanges—threads frayed, only randomly matching. Glimmers of a stitch.

When I travel my body reprograms my brain with felt senses and shifts my approach from top down to bottom up. Sensory signals or guesses; I get to choose which side of the scales to place each experience. It is only with the heart brain that one can ultimately fully comprehend. Cognitive dissonance lingers in a dark skull box. The blueprint knows where to inspire and where to protect. Denied ecstasy … also disillusionment. I feel.

I stare out the taxi window en route to Colombo Airport; words look back. Forests and hanging fruits. Fecund. Phallic. Feral I am. The wanting to stay taints the wanting to go. Gratitude. Grit. The wanting. The waiting. The pause. Breathe. The driver straddles the lanes. Neti neti.

Waiting at the airport for the international flight to Chennai, the tension of the opposites waits with me. I attempt to connect the dots back to who I was when I arrived at this place a month ago. Deer-eyed. Interrogated. The Circle of Zen is not always a simple brush stroke. This cycle that has brought me back to the same place is an explosion and collapse of rainbows and black holes. Order, chaos and everything in between. Each new day a new me. Travel creates the earth’s tarot cards that give direction based not on cardinal points but on the ever-churning and spiralling internal highways that never get me lost. Because I can never be lost. Because I am always right here. Where are you?

After a month in Sri Lanka, I will have to re-orientate my being around my old lover; India … to feel if her devotion is strong enough to hold me. Usually when I’m anxious I shop online. The only thing available to me is an upgrade. “Gulp!” I don’t want to leave but know that I must … it is only in the leaving that I will be able to return. Sri Lanka has chipped away at my heart and snuck inside. If you look real close you will notice the chains are broken.