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Hello Mr. Therapist.

            I enter a room -- other than the shelves filled with old leather-bound books lining one side, the dark-coloured walls were bare. A modern desk, supporting a few family pictures and other utensils, lies on the opposite half of French windows, giving the room a warm ambience in contrast to the cold and modern furniture. And of course, placed in the middle of the room is the white leather chaise lounge, an inanimate object that seems to welcome me. He sits behind his desk, beckoning me to take a seat. And when I do so, he introduces himself with some common name, his voice a soothing whisper that surprisingly warms me into a sense of a security -- a soft lullaby. He starts to ask questions now.

            “How are you?” he says.

            “I truly… don’t know.” He nods as if he understands. There’s an awkwardness that sits in the atmosphere as I am under his scrutinizing gaze. To him, I am a puzzle that he is trying to put together. I tell him now: good luck, if I don’t know how I feel, I wouldn’t expect some stranger to.