"So, tell me about your dreams?" The counsellor adjusts his glasses, pushing them back above the bridge of his nose.
"I don't have any."
"You don't - ?" He peers at me as if I was some kind of specimen; his pupils visible above the rims of his lenses. "Everyone has dreams. You just might not remember them." He smiles, thinking he has won this argument.
"If I am the only person who experience my dreams and I don't remember them, do I truly dream?"
The counsellor sucks at the top of his pen, then scribbles something on his notepad. "Very zen," he says, drawing a line under his notes.
"I dabble." I shrug my shoulders and try to sound nonchalant. "Before enlightenment: draw water, chop wood. After enlightenment: draw water, chop wood."
Once again the counsellor's pen moves with purpose across his pad. "Alright. I will accept you don't have those dreams. But what about the other kind of dream? What about your hopes? Your aspirations?"
I look around the office., It's decorated in the 'corporate bland' style'. Walls painted in neutral tones. Inspirational framed pictures of forested mountains and leaping dolphins. A barely perceptible scent of furniture polish and flora Shake'n'Vac. The overall effect is tranquillising; stultifying. I turn my attention back to the counsellor.
"Aspirations?" My face is reflected in the lenses of his spectacles.
"Yes. For the future."
"I don't have any. I live in the moment. Zen. Remember?"
The counsellor scribbles down another note. "No dreams? No aspirations? Is there nothing that you look forward to? Nothing that motivates you?"
I shake me head. "No."
"I see."
The counsellor leans back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. He taps his pen against his chin, then lunges forward. "Very well. I've made my decision." His face changes to that expression - the one I have seen so many times before - and a numbing chill settles on my. "I do not believe you're ready to go out into the world." I start to speak, but the counsellor continues. "You need more time. You have to come to terms with yourself. I'm sorry, but better luck next time? Yes?"
He stands up, extending a valedictory hand. I get to my feet. "Thank you." The floor around me begins to ripple; the beige carpet rippling and changing. A red light shines up from below, bathing me in its warmth.
"I'll get my secretary to make another appointment," the counsellor says. "Until next time."
And I sink through the floor.
