In the dark, a man whispers something in my ear about my root chakra. I’m perched on a block on a yoga mat in a gym in east London, wearing a glowing set of headphones. My eyes are closed: I can’t see the others around me, or hear the David Guetta soundtrack or the slamming of weights downstairs. Just the voice. Lie down, it says. I’m not getting the goosebumps I had hoped for, though. It’s not him, it’s me, I think. Relax, the voice says.
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