I had my, “Happy 100 Posts!” announcement on my blog two days ago, accompanied by a lil golden championship trophy. Most likely not many care. And that’s all good. No big deal. Truthfully, initially I didn’t concern myself too much aside from a semi-audible, “awwww,” expressed under my breath.
Here’s what 100 posts breaks down to
Out of at least the past, roughly 756 days of my life, I have chosen to write. More accurately, for at least 100 days out of the past 756 days of my life I have chosen to write AND publish my words out into the world. Many of those days have been fueled by the need to fulfill a writing challenge, and quite a handful of those days have been driven by sheer spirited desire. While I have surely written on other days there are at least a 100 days in which I have made the conscious decision to post my thoughts abroad to cyber-sphere unknown eyes. That’s roughly 13.2275% of my last 2 years of my life documented in some way.
Doesn’t seem lil golden trophy worthy.
If I was to factor in the precise amount of words written (which I’m not) and the exact amount of memories recounted (I’m not attempting) or the specific account of people, places, moments, feelings, memories narrated and described (nope) I am certain my percentage would be higher.
Here’s what 100 posts builds up to.
It’s built conversations with family and friends, recounting past memories, laughing at Mom and Dad’s dinner table or an Easter brunch at Cheesecake Factory. Intimate moments with loved ones cozied up on the couch reading posts aloud, sharing spiraling words and derivative ideas all from the offshoot bud that was each piece. These words built bridges. Friendships constructed upon the foundation of electric kindred connection. Factor in the hours of laughter and boundless banter. Raised lessons to a revolutionary genuine level. Each word served as a step, tapping into the writing potential of young minds, eager to try. Each post serves as a stamped day, lived and breathed, then conceived by me. Rolled, molded, and melded- restructured to suit the kind that is the product of my factory line mind. Each alliterative syllable torn, shorn, and born from the orchestrated Dr Suessical musical playing in my head.
On closer consideration, those numbers do add up to something.
Here’s to your lil golden trophy…
Happy Birthday, Sneeze.