The air seemed unfittingly cold for the day as it had seemed when it had been framed by the white trusses of the window that morning. She thought it funny that she would look outside and trust how she felt it should feel instead of looking at the passersby who would probably be more reliable indicators of the present weather. She noticed them now as she walked by huddled in her own masses, which were not people or warm bodies but her books and her bag. She was walking briskly in a rhythm that the force of the wind coerced her into adopting as it pushed her body, her face, and her arms back and as she felt she must push the wind with her arms, body, and face forward. The immediate pure force of the wind made her feel as though if she did not push back that she might also not live. She found it funny to think that this is why she pushed so heavily against it. Thinking these thoughts made her also think that if this force had instead been her father, her life would have turned out much differently.
(What this is, I do not know. Intro to a short story perhaps? Felt the need to stir the flow of those creative juices that have since stagnated and coagulated to become a lumpy unidentifiable ball of crap that resembles something that I used to know long ago)
{Also doesn't the style remind you of some American Literature novel about a girl who experiences some sort of awakening or coming of age)
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