Pen and paper wouldn’t have needed much of my time this morning. Even a few sentences would probably have helped me calm down a little. Time is crazy. I’m sure that if, ten years from now, I were to look back at this morning and ask myself why I couldn’t have put aside ten or fifteen minutes to write about what was bothering me, no answer would come to me except that I didn’t want to. Since I’m writing these sentences later in the day, I must’ve decided to listen to myself. I imagine that I’m calm enough now to have written these sentences this morning. What made me so anxious this morning seems trivial at 5 p.m., and will undoubtedly seem more so after a full glass of red wine. Daily life often seems crazy by definition. Perhaps I’ve taken the time to put into words what’s been bothering me because I’m committed to the work I’m doing with my psychotherapist and psychoanalyst, who’s on vacation. Time seems an integral part both of this journal work and of our work together in sessions. Dreams have helped shape sessions, as if the images and symbols that leave my mouth in the form of words during a fifty-minute hour somehow affect what both of us say in what remains of that session. The unconscious becomes real in psychoanalytic psychotherapy. These sentences seem part of a new attitude, which was born, or is in the process of being born, in Sarah’s office. But the birth of a new attitude happens inside of me, and it doesn’t disappear when I leave her office, no? It’s time for that glass of red wine. Time takes time to understand. The seconds, minutes, and hours I spend on listening to myself are worth it. The proof seems to be in these sentences. In my experience, sentences written on paper and sentences spoken in sessions of psychotherapy work together in mysterious ways. Life has happened today, and I’ve tried to record fragments of it on paper. Now it’s time for a glass of wine.