Time Before a Moment

A few minutes remain. Words refuse to appear. I wait. There isn’t time for more coffee. Sometimes reading a few sentences or a paragraph of a book that seems related to what I’m working on helps. My body isn’t moving toward the bookshelves. I want to finish my thought, on paper, before I become a listener for another fifty minutes, and then for several more fifty-minute hours, until evening. The initial image of the incipient thought remains. It’s of the same human being that will be seated across from me five minutes from now, if he arrives on time. I haven’t written many articles based on my clinical experience with clients or patients. I wish I hadn’t reminded myself of that. These sentences in my mind have occupied time. Words start appearing on the piece of paper on my desk. I write one sentence, then a few more, about how I experience time while listening to him. The final sentence has been written, for now. I stand up and walk toward the door. In a few moments I’ll be seated again.

 

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