The Number Nine.

"And a house is not a home,
When there's no one there to hold you tight,
And no one there you can kiss good night."

A stitch in time, saves nine.

There are nine major planets in our solar system.

A cat is said to have nine lives.

There is a limit of nine innings in a baseball game.

A human pregnancy approximately lasts nine months.

I have a very small, very perfect number nine, etched into my skin where a bird bit me today.

And this last nine, actually really annoys me for two reasons.
One, because it is on the side of my right hand, at the bottom of my index finger, so that whenever I look down at what I'm typing, or holding - I see it there. 

And two - it makes me wonder. Because this small incision in my skin, this small mark where that bird's beak pierced my hand - it's too perfect to be an accident.

And I know it sounds stupid, and seems like complete superficial nonsense - but I think this symbol might mean something.

Whether it's something to make me remember that I am brave enough to grab two wild Rainbow Lorikeets and throw them out the window in maths class, or whether it's a sign for something about to happen - I don't know. I mean, tomorrow is the ninth - perhaps it means that'll be a good day for me. But whatever it is, the mysteriousness about this mark on my hand really intrigues me. A little too much.

And all this research on the number nine makes me think I know why.

"I have a very small, very perfect number nine, etched into my skin."

I've been having a lot of emotional relapses lately.

The kind where I think I'm over you, then something will happen, and I'll remember a certain memory, and then everything will come back and I will suddenly be the obsessive, young child you constantly accuse me of being. The obsessive, young child that I probably am.

But as of a few days ago, I looked back at those "relapse memories" with a sigh and a smile, rather than a sense of longing.
Kind of like the final acceptance of a deceased childhood pet. I'll remember those times we had, and honour them, but I'll accept that I'll never get them back.

So now, this genuine feeling of finally "getting over you" - well, it feels real. It feels like birds flying. Like hopping back into bed after turning off your nagging, annoying alarm in the morning. Like a compliment on a bad hair day. Like a fresh start.

Like freedom.

I'm beginning to think the number nine on my hand could mean a new beginning.

In many languages, nine and new are similar words. For instance, in Spanish nine and new are nueve and nuevo. In French the word neuf means both nine and new. 

So it could be that. 

Or it could just be a cut in my skin, caused by a frenzied bird.

"So rather than trying to protect you,
I'm going to cover my bases first.
So rather than trying to open my heart,
I'm going to lock it with a key.
So that only the special ones,
Can ever get through to me."