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My Bollywood Life with Loxy
The therapist had a likeable, grandfatherly feel about him. There was an appealing scent of unburnt tobacco in the air. The couch was almost to Freudian to be present day real. The therapist sat behind me, and slightly to the left. I suppose if you were framing a shot for a movie, it would lead to some interesting juxtaposition of reflective but counter intuitive insights. An infinity of memes to map. Though I could see the therapist in my head, having studied him well, facing away from him was a bit unnatural in terms of conversing. I heard the unmistakable voice of Jung, “Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.”
I had to lean forwards to look back. “What?”
“Where does it start?”
“I am sorry, what?”
“No apology necessary. Your problems, where do they start?”
“How do you know I have problems?” I couldn’t stop the stupid from leaving me. I leaned back into the lounge and crossed my arms, sulking.
“I assume it’s why you’re here,” he said, not unkindly.
“I don’t even know why I am here.” That was truth. I don’t know how I got here. The continuity of life is not always straight forwards, though I was pretty sure this was not one of those flashback episodes where I mysteriously time…
