Seven... or Hungover and Feeling Philosophical

My problem is that I have been persecuted by an integer. For seven years this number has followed me around, has intruded in my most private data, and has assaulted me from the pages of our most public journals. This number assumes a variety of disguises, being sometimes a little larger and sometimes a little smaller than usual, but never changing so much as to be unrecognizable. The persistence with which this number plagues me is far more than a random accident. There is, to quote a famous senator, a design behind it, some pattern governing its appearances. Either there really is something unusual about the number or else I am suffering from delusions of persecution.
-George A. Miller

The doctors told my mother that I was supposed to be born on September the 7th. I was born on September the 17th at 12:47 pm. I am my maternal grandmother's seventh grandchild. My middle name is Septima. Septima has 7 letters.

The seventh chakra is located at the top of the cranium and it is supposed to be *my* chakra, according to Mayan astrology and a pagan tarot card deck.

Seven intrigues me, and I see it everywhere. This makes me wonder if letters, words, numbers and other images humans have created, might have a deeper significance. We have created so many symbols to express ourselves and to describe our experiences. What if these symbols choose us, rather than us choosing them. I am in love with so many words, I am haunted by a number and I know many people who have similar experiences.

Or maybe this just a vain attempt to make sense of the world. Maybe it's just a little coincidence that the seventh song on my cds are always my favorites.

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Today I went for a walk and I ended up under a beautiful, old tree. Standing there I did two really wonderful things. First, I apologized to myself. I apologized for accumulating piles and piles of shit for two full decades. Then I listened to the silence around me, building up the courage to break it. I needed to scream. I opened my mouth a few times and nothing came out. It was close. Then something finally switched on and I screamed. The silence that came after my little release was so gratifying. It was silence that had somehow been changed after listening to my scream.

I don't scream enough. So it's no wonder I find myself where I am today. I feel that the only thing I have done so far in my life is collect as much bullshit as possible and then keep it all bottled up inside. So, the best thing to do right now, is to start letting it all out.

Screaming today was great. I freed a bit of myself. I got a bit lighter today under that tree. I think everyone should scream a little more often. Go outside, find a magical spot and scream at the space around you. If your scream releases anything, I bet you will find that the space you just yelled at has listened to you.

When you say the right words at the right time or when your voice manages to express the right emotion, it is a really fulfilling experience. Today, I chose a scream to make myself heard.

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Those two stories seem entirely unrelated but I think I can link them in a really profound yet simple way: We can choose a language to express ourselves and a language can choose us in return. I'm really fascinated with words and letters and numbers and how and why we choose the ones we do. But I also think that some of them choose us. That makes communication and expression all the more significant.