Subjective Truth

Wasn’t it him? It couldn’t have been anyone else. Why wouldn’t my feet move me toward him? He held a paperback in his hands, and since we were both standing in the psychology section, I imagined that the author whose words he was reading was a psychoanalyst or psychotherapist or both. I thought I verbalized these sentences during our session the following day. Since I was on the couch, I had to imagine how Martin reacted to my words or my fantasy or both. I walked away from him in my favorite bookstore in Seattle, or did I? I knew what I’d done the previous day. Martin asked me what the experience had been like. I’d been almost certain that I’d seen him. I was surprised at my reaction to his question and to his not confirming or denying my own question about his whereabouts at a particular moment the previous day. I was calm on the couch.  I knew I’d imagined him holding that paperback in the psychology section. I was certain of it. In my imagination, I did see Martin in my favorite bookstore, in a city where few such stores remained. Subjective truth wasn’t only a fantasy to me.

 

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