Counting by 7s

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

plants made sounds, it would all be different. But they communicate with colour and shape and size and texture. They don’t meow or bark or tweet. We think they don’t have eyes, but they see the angle of the sun and the rise of the moon. They don’t just feel the wind, they change directions because of it. Before you think I’m crazy (which is always a possibility), look outside.

It’s possible that all labels are curses. Unless they are on cleaning products.

Plus he liked the comfort of possessions. If he couldn’t belong to something, at least something belonged to him.

Everyone, I now realise, lives in a world of pain.

The ability to keep your mouth shut is usually a sign of intelligence. Introspection requires you to think and analyse.

Life, I now realise, is just one big trek across a minefield and you never know which step is going to blow you up.

No matter how hard they try, other people do not understand because I’m incapable of communication. And that is why the deepest form of pain comes out as silence.

All reality, I decide, is a blender where hopes and dreams are mixed with fear and despair. Only in cartoons and fairy tales and greeting cards do endings have glitter.