Therapy

The door opened and a diminutive older lady strolled out of her office, face beaming has her client meandered out of the office, smiling from ear-to-ear. It seemed to support some time honored cliche regarding therapy as the instant fix. The doctor turned to me after a couple-of minutes signing papers, presented to her by her extremely attractive young secretary, smiled, and escorted me into the office. This space seemed to demonstrate every facet of her being. Pictures of her aged children adorned her desk. A tattered old couch lay next to a equally dilapidated recliner, both seemed to beckon the sitter into complacency and openness. Along the left portion of the office, stood an aged, mahogany bookshelf. Its age had been accentuated by the torn novels that lined its shelf, forming the smile of haggard old man that had indulged his vices far too much in his youth. Attached to the paneling, lay a signed manifesto of the Apollo 11, names of an age gone by, names that represented mans search for truth and deeper understanding, beckoned me to discover some internal, spacial,"truth". I let myself be engulfed by the leathery comfort of the sofa; its black fabric completely contrasting the paleness of my skin. The doctor fumbled around some papers on her desk. She then began to detail my psychological profile to me. "You have experienced severe trauma John. I have encountered this scenario countless times and every-time *pause* the same result. Things are gonna improve of that I am positive. I have convinced your parents that return at the end of second semester is necessary, as I have convinced the parents of every child that experiences this, but in the interim you must attempt to make the best of the circumstances". She beamed as she ended this dialogue and pressed her back into the leather of the recliner, and let her mind settle. "I assume there are some issues you desire to discuss Jack?!" She inquired, breaking the serenity of the space, as a means of discovering truth. "Yea" I tersely responded. I sighed and began my lonesome narration. I spoke of an experience several nights-ago that had been troubling me for the past couple-of days, and the sense of loneliness that it created. I spoke of bitterness. I spoke of my struggle regarding self-image, for the first time in my brief existence I have felt completely unattractive, as a result of a racial barrier that I had encountered. I spoke of prejudice, that strange sensation of hatred that truncates the peace of every minority. I continued on for hours as she attempted to maneuver through the mine field of my sub-concious.

The serenity of space shattered as the session bell tolled. I returned to my veritable shell, my shuttle through the abyss, and let myself feel comfortable again, comfortable in the shelter of stagnation. I left the office and strolled the Lang-Quai Fung. People adorned in their clubbing uniforms cantered past, eager to achieve complete inebriation as fast as possible. I paused and took in the scene, felt Lang-Quai Fung pulsing through my veins. I felt the pain drift off for a couple-of moments, as the numbing alcohol poured into the stomachs of the people around me. Lang-Quai, a different sort-of therapy.