… for no apparent reason. I went to bed at 2 and woke at 6. Tried to turn on the other side, but sleep evaded me. Instead I listened to a book by an author I once swore I’d never read again. But I obviously forgot. I made the oath not because he’s a bad writer, he is not. In fact he writes exquisitely. His language, his portrayals, his storytelling compel you to go on reading till the end. It is as if you enter the main characters’ minds, sensing their joy, their sorrow, their anger, to the extent that their feelings become almost one with your own emotions. And all along, a foreboding of imminent disaster, or at least misery. Towards the usually bitter end, the story tearing you apart, and you strongly regret ever having turned that first page.
Afraid the young boy always present in the hallway, sweeping, will hear my sobbing, I pull myself together. After all, it was only a book, but one that touched me deeply, in many ways.
So maybe the wretched book is the reason for my weeping. Or maybe it’s the fact that tonight I will be leaving beautiful Sri Lanka, the blissfull warmth, both of the climate and the people.
To shake off, or at least come to grips with my feelings, I take a walk along the beach. It is yet another wonderful day. Windy, but not too much so. Perfect for the catamarans which are, as far as I can see all but one, dotting the blue sea under Sri Lanka’s steadfast sun. I enter the water, emerge myself in its soothing, soft body, take a few strokes, but feeling the strong currents, don’t venture further out. The water does me good, and conceals the tears I in vain am trying to hold back.
Most everyone I meet during my stroll, greats me with a smile, sometimes a handshake and a “How are you madam?” Should I confide in them? Tell them about my sadness? Ridiculous thought, of course.

And by the way, what do I have to cry about, anyway, privileged and pampered as I am here…

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