on the couch

I've actually, strangely, been lying on the couch in Sarah's office these last few weeks, 3:30 to 4:15, or a little later, on Monday afternoons. I've been lying there, legs crossed primly at the ankles, hands folded on abdomen, staring, mostly, at the two black and white photographs hanging on the wall at the end of the couch, just a couple feet above my clunky black boots. One, the one on top, of rocks, huge boulders scattered, shattered, near the ocean. The other, just below, a close-up of water, perhaps even of that same ocean, surfaces rippling in shadow and light. This is the one that I often find myself staring at, in those spaces between one thought and the next, when I am not making light of something and craning over my shoulder to see if Sarah is smiling, between convoluted overthinking and semi-logical extrapolations, in those rare moments when I can just let my self breathe.

I am discovering that I really like this breathing thing.