# One Year, Plainly Written

## A Fresh Canvas

On this quiet February morning in 2026, I open a new file. It's just "year.md"—simple text, no frills. A year begins like this: empty lines waiting for words. No grand resolutions, just space to breathe and record. I've come to see each year as this unadorned document. It holds what matters without excess, inviting honesty in plain sight.

## Layers of Living

Life adds its marks naturally. Bold headings for turning points—a job shift, a quiet walk with old friends. Bullet lists capture the small wins:

- Sunrise coffee shared with a loved one.
- A book's wisdom that lingers.
- Rainy evenings mending what frayed.

Italics lean into feelings, the soft ache of goodbyes or joy's warm glow. No need for color or fanfare; the structure emerges from living it. By summer, the file thickens, but stays light—editable, forgiving.

## The Edit That Endures

Endings bring review. What to keep? What to strike? A year isn't fixed ink; it's draft after draft. Mistakes bolded become lessons. Gaps filled with grace. In 2025's file, I cut rush for rest, and it clarified everything. This philosophy grounds me: our years are ours to revise, line by line, toward truer selves.

*In the end, a well-marked year reads like a life well-lived—clear, kind, complete.*