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 can see the trees swaying and the rustle in the grass, but do not know the wind is there. The whoosh and bristle as it passes through, I can hear, but I never knew it was wind. Even though it is in my face, blowing back my hair, screaming at me to notice, I am oblivious. The wind dies down. Just as it cessates, I notice the calm and the lack of brisk stimulation running across my face and I realize that there was wind, but now it is gone. The same wind will not return.

I really like this entry because I feel like I’m saying something in a pretty eloquent form. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s describing what I go through when a girl is hitting on me. Maybe it’s good poetry because it can be applied to a variety of situations that many people go through.