• Rhea Singh

The Therapist's Therapist

The couch smells of fresh coffee and week-old lilies. The colours that jump at me are mostly green and darker shades of the hue. I have thoughts and I have thoughts about my thoughts; and my therapist will bring her thoughts. And I am swimming in passive and active cognition. My intellect constricts and expands to accomodate the irony of the "therapist coming to therapy" situation. My metaphorical suitcase of emotions sits rather perfectly aligned with the grey couch. The glass table reflects it's suede surface and my eyes sparkle just a little. There lies neatly packed, my childhood, my staggering adulthood, and the chaos that my life has been along the rough margins of both. The tardiness of my awareness switches to hyperspeed as soon as I see the thick-rimmed spectacles enter the room. Today is going to be a full-blown emotional world cup.

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