The Psychoanalyst

In a nutshell, I could believe I finally met another who asks all the right questions, and who casts all too knowing looks, whose words are all heavy with meaning and who pays full attention to my quirks and neuroses, just like someone else did, all too long ago. That I’m provocative enough to produce desire for analysis is a huge aphrodisiac in itself.

I fear I think too much. But the person in question, demanded to know why not, why can’t something simple be read as more.

It’s a sense of déjà vu that I’m not sure if I’m keen to relive. What if he concludes likewise after the analysis of me. But that should be the least of my problems.

We are much older. He’s much older. But we are not wise, not yet. And I’m less worldly than I like to pretend. False maturity is dangerous. So is confusion and loneliness.

And today, I was at Vansh. Indian cuisine. We had Indian cuisine mostly. And that added to my misgivings.

(Yes, I’m determined to jinx this by posting an entry on it. It has to be jinxed.)