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.

There is nothing left for me here, no reason to stay. My work here is done, so to speak. Again, my chance comes to me like a blow to the face and I know not what to do. I want to leave, but something has me remain. If it comes again soon I am leaving. I tire of this place.

After a year of college and the freedom that came with it, my suburban hometown seemed confining and useless to me. That feeling never changed, but it took me a long time to permanently remove myself from it. Fifteen years later, when I go back to it, these feeling still remain in a somewhat warped form. I find it very quaint and the people charming. I don’t feel above it. In fact, I wish that I could feel at home there. It seems very peaceful.