she counted the number of days that have passed since he had left her standing alone in the rain with a simple “I can’t do this anymore.” She counted the number of footsteps he had took before the sound of it fa
I have always counted on people, but lately I have learned that the only person that one can count on is themselves. We always have our own best interests at heart and we will never hurt ourselves if that is not what we need. We understand ourselves deeper than any other person could possibly understand us.
When you count something you say how many of said thing there is in a designated location. You can also count on something, or someone, meaning you depend on them.
The numbers kept coming up on the screen but there was no way I could make sense of them. Piling up one after the other, they merely seemed to advertise an impending doom, the nature of which I could not possibly fathom. Staring at them would not help either, but for a fleeting moment I felt I could just turn my head and there it would be, at the limit of my vision, in all its abominable glory.
She counted days by the number of dying pigeons just outside the small window of the cell. The gray birds symbolized the crushing disappointment that was now more familiar friend than executioner. Their slow deaths in rising numbers symbolized a long-accepted realization. Slowly she lay dying like these rats. The end of their life was like a sick parallelism to the hope that died that she would ever gain freedom.
She counted his fingers and toes and thanked God when all twenty were there. She looked at his little face and waves of emotion crashed over her. She couldn’t believe that she could love any man more than her husband, but this one took that love and quadrupled it.
It is important to count in this world. The two main characters want to leave the world and have mattered. We don’t think about it enough when we are not at the finish line of life.
I washed the clothes. I did the dishes. And I picked up the groceries.
Then I sat down and counted the cards in the stack, all wishing us a very happy married life.
The shine had faded from the stars and our eyes but the cards seemed to not notice.
“Stand up” they said, “Show what you’re made of. We’ll be behind you every step of the way!”
Yeah, course they were, right up until things got hairy. Things started to get tricky and violent… then they weren’t quite so supportive.
Stand up and be counted they say. But there are so many things to stand up against: war; racism; Macdonalds; Amazon; Marine le Pen; Chinese fur trade…. How can I choose? And if we shout too loud we are ignored, or attacked. It’s a dilemma. Is just sending a few dollars to Oxfam, or Greenpeace or Amnesty enough – or should I run for office. It’s a headache; another cup of (fair trade) coffee please.
I counted the minutes as they passed on the clock, each tick growing with intensity as it echoed through my mind. Tick. I could have been happy. Tock. If only he had been truly honest with me. Tick. How does any of this make any sense. Tock. He doesn’t want to be serious with me? Tick. Then why is he getting married to her? Tock.
She sat on the white empty sheets of her bed and drew open the curtain just in front of her. Everything seemed strangely bleak. The sky was grey, the birds were grey and even many of the pedestrians wore grey clothes. The cars zooming by her were silver, if not, grey.
Everything seemed so desolate. Her life was even worse. Desperate. Drained.
she has a fixation with counting, numbering all sorts of things, be it her footsteps, the number of cracks in the grey concrete ground or the number of squeaks the faded yellow plastic chair she sits on gives out.
she nearly missed that seventh drop. eight. nine. ten. ele-
She leers over me, tall and contempt Countess, she.
I wait, sitting aloof on the countertops. It doesn’t work –
She – an accountant, as if – waits on me, unimpressed.
I, sheepishly counting on my fingers those careless steps –
The ones i left behind – too unaccounted for.
“I new I could count on you
to hold me accountable,” she bites, sneering at my incompetency.
a clever counter, indeed.
I fail my coolness, and the Countenance tells all.
I counted your tears, I counted the pages you wrote to me. I put them in a jar, and set them aside. I lay on my pillow, and stared across the room. I count the days until you return to me.
I looked from cheese whiz to cheese whiz, up and down the aisle, under the pale green light of a long fluorescent light bulb. This was hell. Behind the onions.
Count. Take it one by one and take it slow. Don’t worry, don’t stress, don’t fuss about it. Take it slow.
Slow, he said. Count it, he said. Trust, he didn’t say, but I felt it.
I heard it just as clearly as if he’d breathed the word right into my ear. I shouldn’t have listened. Oh hang it all, I shouldn’t have let him ever get this close, but dash it all, I love him.
Insufferable man–ridiculous human being that he is–I love him and what does that say about me? So help me, I am one of the few.
I am one who was counted.
And they will never find me, fo his legacy is mine to uphold.
Counting the seconds
And letting time by
I listen to the wind
As does the sky
And the more I try
The more I realize
That counting is simplicity
And complexity has its name
But by all accounts
I realize that no more time can go
And its place in my life
Is as simple as a ghost
And the music lies in time
In a simply battered state
Like the wake of a plane
Or the clouds behind a boat
I counted the seconds we were together. It wasn’t long, but it was great. I have never felt that way with anyone else. I want to feel that way with someone else.
“You weren’t there for me when it counted, Kris. Why should I be there for you?”
“Jen…”
“No,” she said, pulling away. “You’re not sucking me in again. Not this time. I’m sorry,” and, with that, she walked away.
“No, Jen,” she said quietly, eyes locked on her back even as she disappeared around the corner. “I’m sorry,”
I thought about the words written on the page. Three words, written in faded ink, long ago. Three words, I had counted them. They had changed me, had changed my life. I love you. That’s what they said. I look down, through the cliff below me, to the street below, I step back, turn and walk away. I can manage for one more day.
time is counted by people who wait
people are counted by its goodness
goodness is counted by its benefits
benefits are counted by their welfare
welfare is counted by the number of smiles
at the end, time is counted by countless smiles
I counted the dollar bills swiftly, shifting them from one hand to the other. “$82, $83, $84, $85,” I mumble to myself. Katrina walks in and grins at me, her face glistening with sweat, and waves a wad of her own money. “Good night for a Tuesday, huh?”
There were so many things he had counted on in life, but seeing his father at a game was never one of them. He had accepted the fact that his father would never see what he was so proud to do, and so when it finally happened, he almost fumbled the ball. His father had finally pulled himself from his chair, stopped counting all tears he’d shed over his lost wife, and come out to support his son.
“Did it count?” “Did I count?” “Did any man count” “No, no man ever counted.” “Do we count?” “Do the janitors count?” “Did anything I ever did count?” “I don’t think anything I ever did ever counted” “Did I ever count everything that ever counted?”
she held up one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten fingers and opened her eyes. “ready or not, here I come!” she shouted. a child giggled somewhere to her left… or whas it her
You concentrated hard as you counted, one two, one two—I watched you in the darkness from the candlelight burning dimly in the low-lit room where we’d first met, where we’d first done it all—you were a mystery, a paradox; you captured my love and sealed it inside your jar of things for me to perish there, breathless, studying you softly with whispers and aching bones, gentle fragments.
word is “counted” dont know what….would have to write about something that counted. Something that mattered perhaps? how co you know what counted? is that even the right synonym? That’d be my take on it, has to be story about something counting what counted…maybe?
she counted the number of days that have passed since he had left her standing alone in the rain with a simple “I can’t do this anymore.” She counted the number of footsteps he had took before the sound of it fa
I have always counted on people, but lately I have learned that the only person that one can count on is themselves. We always have our own best interests at heart and we will never hurt ourselves if that is not what we need. We understand ourselves deeper than any other person could possibly understand us.
When you count something you say how many of said thing there is in a designated location. You can also count on something, or someone, meaning you depend on them.
The numbers kept coming up on the screen but there was no way I could make sense of them. Piling up one after the other, they merely seemed to advertise an impending doom, the nature of which I could not possibly fathom. Staring at them would not help either, but for a fleeting moment I felt I could just turn my head and there it would be, at the limit of my vision, in all its abominable glory.
She counted days by the number of dying pigeons just outside the small window of the cell. The gray birds symbolized the crushing disappointment that was now more familiar friend than executioner. Their slow deaths in rising numbers symbolized a long-accepted realization. Slowly she lay dying like these rats. The end of their life was like a sick parallelism to the hope that died that she would ever gain freedom.
on you
once twice thrice
in love
each time only head in clouds
always
only fish heart
The seconds count down and I’ve very little time to finish my thought. I wish this could have been better but life’s like that.
I can count the number of days I’ve spent with friends and family going outside. I can count the number of my friends on my fingers.
numbers
flowers
kisses
stars
chocolates
friends
five six seven eight
She counted his fingers and toes and thanked God when all twenty were there. She looked at his little face and waves of emotion crashed over her. She couldn’t believe that she could love any man more than her husband, but this one took that love and quadrupled it.
It is important to count in this world. The two main characters want to leave the world and have mattered. We don’t think about it enough when we are not at the finish line of life.
I washed the clothes. I did the dishes. And I picked up the groceries.
Then I sat down and counted the cards in the stack, all wishing us a very happy married life.
The shine had faded from the stars and our eyes but the cards seemed to not notice.
“Stand up” they said, “Show what you’re made of. We’ll be behind you every step of the way!”
Yeah, course they were, right up until things got hairy. Things started to get tricky and violent… then they weren’t quite so supportive.
Stand up and be counted they say. But there are so many things to stand up against: war; racism; Macdonalds; Amazon; Marine le Pen; Chinese fur trade…. How can I choose? And if we shout too loud we are ignored, or attacked. It’s a dilemma. Is just sending a few dollars to Oxfam, or Greenpeace or Amnesty enough – or should I run for office. It’s a headache; another cup of (fair trade) coffee please.
I counted the minutes as they passed on the clock, each tick growing with intensity as it echoed through my mind. Tick. I could have been happy. Tock. If only he had been truly honest with me. Tick. How does any of this make any sense. Tock. He doesn’t want to be serious with me? Tick. Then why is he getting married to her? Tock.
Her days were counted.
She sat on the white empty sheets of her bed and drew open the curtain just in front of her. Everything seemed strangely bleak. The sky was grey, the birds were grey and even many of the pedestrians wore grey clothes. The cars zooming by her were silver, if not, grey.
Everything seemed so desolate. Her life was even worse. Desperate. Drained.
one.
two. three. four. five. six.
she has a fixation with counting, numbering all sorts of things, be it her footsteps, the number of cracks in the grey concrete ground or the number of squeaks the faded yellow plastic chair she sits on gives out.
she nearly missed that seventh drop. eight. nine. ten. ele-
it’s referred by numbers and it’s useful in our everyday life, without it money is useless.
None of them counted anymore. His words were hollow, hardly even echoes now, trapped within the confines of her head. And she could never get away.
She leers over me, tall and contempt Countess, she.
I wait, sitting aloof on the countertops. It doesn’t work –
She – an accountant, as if – waits on me, unimpressed.
I, sheepishly counting on my fingers those careless steps –
The ones i left behind – too unaccounted for.
“I new I could count on you
to hold me accountable,” she bites, sneering at my incompetency.
a clever counter, indeed.
I fail my coolness, and the Countenance tells all.
I counted your tears, I counted the pages you wrote to me. I put them in a jar, and set them aside. I lay on my pillow, and stared across the room. I count the days until you return to me.
I looked from cheese whiz to cheese whiz, up and down the aisle, under the pale green light of a long fluorescent light bulb. This was hell. Behind the onions.
Count. Take it one by one and take it slow. Don’t worry, don’t stress, don’t fuss about it. Take it slow.
Slow, he said. Count it, he said. Trust, he didn’t say, but I felt it.
I heard it just as clearly as if he’d breathed the word right into my ear. I shouldn’t have listened. Oh hang it all, I shouldn’t have let him ever get this close, but dash it all, I love him.
Insufferable man–ridiculous human being that he is–I love him and what does that say about me? So help me, I am one of the few.
I am one who was counted.
And they will never find me, fo his legacy is mine to uphold.
Counting the seconds
And letting time by
I listen to the wind
As does the sky
And the more I try
The more I realize
That counting is simplicity
And complexity has its name
But by all accounts
I realize that no more time can go
And its place in my life
Is as simple as a ghost
And the music lies in time
In a simply battered state
Like the wake of a plane
Or the clouds behind a boat
I counted the seconds we were together. It wasn’t long, but it was great. I have never felt that way with anyone else. I want to feel that way with someone else.
“You weren’t there for me when it counted, Kris. Why should I be there for you?”
“Jen…”
“No,” she said, pulling away. “You’re not sucking me in again. Not this time. I’m sorry,” and, with that, she walked away.
“No, Jen,” she said quietly, eyes locked on her back even as she disappeared around the corner. “I’m sorry,”
I thought about the words written on the page. Three words, written in faded ink, long ago. Three words, I had counted them. They had changed me, had changed my life. I love you. That’s what they said. I look down, through the cliff below me, to the street below, I step back, turn and walk away. I can manage for one more day.
time is counted by people who wait
people are counted by its goodness
goodness is counted by its benefits
benefits are counted by their welfare
welfare is counted by the number of smiles
at the end, time is counted by countless smiles
I counted the dollar bills swiftly, shifting them from one hand to the other. “$82, $83, $84, $85,” I mumble to myself. Katrina walks in and grins at me, her face glistening with sweat, and waves a wad of her own money. “Good night for a Tuesday, huh?”
I counted the rice. I counted the beans, the potatoes, the yams, and the gerbils. Wait, gerbils? How did they get into my soup?
There were so many things he had counted on in life, but seeing his father at a game was never one of them. He had accepted the fact that his father would never see what he was so proud to do, and so when it finally happened, he almost fumbled the ball. His father had finally pulled himself from his chair, stopped counting all tears he’d shed over his lost wife, and come out to support his son.
“Did it count?” “Did I count?” “Did any man count” “No, no man ever counted.” “Do we count?” “Do the janitors count?” “Did anything I ever did count?” “I don’t think anything I ever did ever counted” “Did I ever count everything that ever counted?”
she held up one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten fingers and opened her eyes. “ready or not, here I come!” she shouted. a child giggled somewhere to her left… or whas it her
You concentrated hard as you counted, one two, one two—I watched you in the darkness from the candlelight burning dimly in the low-lit room where we’d first met, where we’d first done it all—you were a mystery, a paradox; you captured my love and sealed it inside your jar of things for me to perish there, breathless, studying you softly with whispers and aching bones, gentle fragments.
word is “counted” dont know what….would have to write about something that counted. Something that mattered perhaps? how co you know what counted? is that even the right synonym? That’d be my take on it, has to be story about something counting what counted…maybe?
Once you’ve been counted against your will, you know something bad will happen to you. The only way out is to escape, unseen.
When it was all finished, they counted the dead, and the ones unlucky enough to still be alive. They would have to go through it again the next day.
Count, Counting, Counted!
Staring at their cracked surface, she forgot
completely
what she was doing.
How many times have I looked at these hands?
How many years have I spent counting?
Why not be counted?