There it was, a blank book. Pristine. Perfect. Untouched.

All the possibilities of the mysterious pages lay unknown to me. It called out to my senses. Whispered promises of stories that desperately wanted to be told. I fell head first into the seat and in a sure grasp picked up the pen and began to write.

The words flew from pen tip to paper.

A story unfolded.

A girl with her eyes bright and a heart full of hope and dreams wandered into the unknown. Braved the sands of time and walked with her head high but like every story there were moments of stumbling. Moments where she was brought to her knees in pain and winded by the gusts of misfortune that shattered every wall she built. But when the storms cleared and she found her way to her place of safety she found the light in her soul still burned. In the embrace of safety she rebuilt her strength and cleared her mind. She geared herself up and made tough decisions then made even harder counter decisions. She evaluated and re-evaluated herself, her destiny and her chosen path.

There were other characters who slipped in and out. Some from old books who stayed at her side and some who were new. Some proved they had important parts in the story. Some were just a moment, a chapter, a supporting character or even a filler. As insignificant to her story as man selling tomatoes in a village miles away from her but there nonetheless. Each with their own story. Each leaving an inky stain on the pages in the book. Their presence documented. Noted. Remembered for what it was.

And through it all my ink flowed onto the paper, documenting the journey, memorizing the story. the pages dented where I rested my arm when it ached and ink splashes where the pen rested a touch too long. There are tear stains where the words broke me and doodles where I got distracted for a little bit.

Now the book draws to an end. A story told. The pages filled.

This was the story of 2015.

A year I can’t erase or change. Mistakes and failures sadly scribbled and then immediately followed by victories documented as boldly in black ink on the pages of my memory.

A year written in ink.

Tomorrow I shall pick up a pen and once again be enticed to write another book…

Watching the ink dry,

Brokebella.