These sentences bring to mind a river current. They’re rushing toward somewhere, and where doesn’t seem a good question to ask right now. I’m trying to keep up with the words that haven’t stopped appearing on the page. My journal is what I have available to write in. I’m seated in the same waiting area that I was a little over fifty minutes ago, before I entered his office and crossed the threshold of more unconscious experiencing. A series of experiences demand representation, and I’m afraid that they’ll disappear the moment I ride the elevator down to the ground floor and find myself back on the sidewalk. Perhaps I should start at the beginning, which happened part way through the session. I had to admit an uncomfortable truth: I’d seen him on the sidewalk the other day, and part of me wanted to follow him, which in reality would’ve been impossible, since he got into his car and drove away. I was on foot, grocery bags in both hands. I find it interesting that above I wrote: “I had to” admit what had happened, as if I felt obligated to do so. I saw someone that looked like him drive away in his car. I’m a writer. I imagine possibilities all day long. I felt obligated to say on the couch what crossed my mind, or to try to, since I know from experience that it’s often impossible for me to do so. Nothing comes to mind, here in the waiting area, as if no words wished to be written. Seconds pass and Martin’s words at this point in the hour return to me: “I can tell that this is difficult for you to say.” I said that I might recreate these moments of the session as fiction. I didn’t hear more words from behind the couch. I waited and waited to speak again, until finally, the fifty minutes came to an end, in silence.