My mind is why we’re here. He stands in his usual position when I walk in the door. What was he doing moments ago, while I was seated in the waiting area, waiting my turn? This last phrase surprises me. What was I waiting for? One mind doesn’t exist alone. He and I don’t meet like this, in his fourth floor office in downtown Seattle multiple times a week, with only one mind on our minds. There’s two of us in the room. Psychoanalytic and Jungian theorists have been writing about this phenomenon for what sometimes feels like forever. The focus is on me, on every word that I utter, on every physical movement I make on the couch. And he’s breathing, imagining, thinking, feeling, behind me. I imagine him reading these words as I write them, as if he were seated behind me, in this physical space, in my writing room. Perhaps this last sentence is psychologically true. Martin has become a subjective reality in my mental life. I imagine him as a presence in these sentences, in which I try to find my daily mental footing. Why is it sometimes so difficult for me to admit that others have an inevitable role in my subjective life? Maybe I write to remind myself that this mystery that I call my subjective life knows no answers. Questions allow me to keep writing.