A Book:

The beginning of the year was an open book. Blank, unwritten, untouched. It was an experience built up in my mind, a fantasy painted by my imagination, void of the reality and hardships I was going to endure. The dreams flourished in my mind, yet the experience itself had not yet taken place. I glorified the piece of prose I hadn't begun to compose. 

My time abroad was a rush. My mind flourished with ideas, yet I was constantly caught up in the experiences. There was very little time to analyze my emotions, be grateful for everything I had there, or step back to look at the work as a whole. I was impulsive and frenzied, and made quick decisions based on my current state of mind. I was a writer, caught up in the process of creating, editing and perfecting the person I wanted to be. I indulged in the experiences and greeted strangers with a smile, rarely taking the time to understand their significance in my story. I was an author, living the experiences that would become the inspiration for a literary masterpiece. 

Now the book is written, but I still linger on the last page. This book is a part of me. It has defined me as a writer, as a human being. Flipping back through the pages I see flashes of my transformation and I am proud of the work I have composed.  But I am scared. I don't want that girl to be a fictional character confined to the pages of this book. I promise myself she won't be. 

This book is an artifact of my existence. Though I may be done writing it, I continue to analyze my experiences and the characters of my story, appreciating the way they impacted me. That's the thing about good literature-- it lives on.