I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

I remember it being so cold in the night. Cold enough that blankets did nothing but fool me into believing it to be warm. As I lay there and watched my breath condense before my eyes, I wandered back to a time of sunshine and humidity. I dreamed of fog blanketing the field that I lay in. And I let the morning dew kiss my body. For 1 moment I was warm, but the intolerable cold brought me back to where I began and I shuddered with all and I broke the blanket in two. I crawled out beyond the darkness as my legs splintered apart from my body. “Where did the sun go?” I screamed, again and again, but I never knew and I watched by breath become fog again.

I was writing a lot during this period, and once more I’m just practicing narrative here in my journal.