I walked into the psychiatrists office and sat down/ I noticed there was a strong smell of strong wood/ the exact type you expect to find in an office like this/ He sat opposite me behind a large desk/ grey suit nicely pressed/ he leaned back and stroked his nostril hair/ “Why is it bothering you so much?” he asked/ What the nostril hair? I had thought/ But “Because it’s crippling my sense of self” was what I said out loud/ “it crushes my belief that I exist in time and space as a real and true physical entity with actual molecular integrity” I said through sharp breath/
He was looking just as perplexed as I was certainly feeling/ He fell to his knees as tears kissed his cheeks/ “Professionalism be damned, I have felt this way too” he spluttered/ my heart fluttered the way it does when faced with the possibility of human connection/ Using only my eyes I begged him to continue, this man made of not bone but pure PHD/ “When it happens, you feel the full force of the complexity of the philosophical conundrum within which we drown like helpless fish”/ Yes he was right, I decided to add “And when it happens you feel as if your actual soul is invisible and you question its very existence”/
This was getting heavy, the other psychiatrists just never understood/ but this one did/ he rose to his knees/ he looked quite majestic/ well, if majestic meant pathetic he did/ “no my boy”/ his trembling voice began to sing/ Well, if sing meant moan he did/
“No, my boy, not you nor I, nor any other man will ever be able to comprehend in any meaningful way, why we English feel the need to say sorry to someone who treads on our foot”/
The relief of hearing someone else say it aloud/ brought on a mass of tears. I hugged him and lit a cigarette.