As of yesterday, there was one-hundred days left in 2018. Unsurprisingly, today there’s ninety-nine. Ninety-nine mornings and mid-days bridging over to evenings and nights. Ninety-nine mixed days of success and failures that iridescently change their views depending on mood or attitude. Ninety-nine swatches being spot-lighted or ignored while trying to cobble together words for a quilt to lay under in the bed that I hope for. Ninety-nine days where I’ll either rise to the roof-top pigeon coop or stay in my room while they freeze out there. Less than ninety-nine of those I’ll tend to them while a part of me knows that they need me but I don’t need them. The odds are ninety-nine to one that I’ll dream of the spray of the ocean and its dramatic tide filling the air of salt and mist, wishing I could see one gull instead of the ninety-nine pigeons and government buildings.
Ninety-nine days left to do something right. This is the first with only myself to thank or disappoint should I never get close to ninety-nine while I try to write and make a few beautiful things, and it wouldn’t fill me with joy but maybe comfort to look back and see ninety-nine blue balloons floating in the winter sky.