Today I caught myself thinking about the late winter/early spring of the year I was in grade 9. I was doing an ISU project on Carl Sagan's Contact for my English class. I decided to try "tv turnoff week", breaking it only once to watch a well-timed airing of the Jodie Foster movie on City. I was listening to a lot of Coldplay's Parachutes. I was training for track season, but the shitty weather meant training mostly indoors: running through the corridors of South Hall after school, tripping over girls in the stairwells putting cornrows into dudes' hair for $5 a pop. I was fifteen, not the edge of twenty-three. I was way more productive in the past than I am in the present.
I have a plan for the future, though. It involves running the Don Valley and the Martin Goodman trail and the Leslie Spit. Early (as early as I can manage) weekend garage sale-ing. Finally writing all that quality fiction that I set out to write this year. Being unsick. Opening my windows more than a crack. Drinking as much wine as my bloodstream can handle. Getting my insulin pump and finally getting myself under control. Okay--perhaps those last two sentences don't exactly jive.
No, everything's not lost.