One thing that thoroughly destroys resolutions of any sort is sickness, the sort that begins with innocent stuffy nose and transforms into a monster of a thing that corrodes routine. I caught a cold somewhere between bed and ski slopes, that was, woke with a head cold, made worse by snowboarding and having slushy ice down my waist in several occasions. Was it worth it? To have resolve slaughtered so quickly in mid-first-month, for the momentary euphoria of slicing down a mountain-hill? I think so, I think yes. Growing up, I've always been athletic, a penchant for speed left me running from A to B. If I couldn't run I would bike. Cars made me sick, like having my limbs supplanted by something alien and uncontrollable. Biking always felt like a way of being that was more natural and superior. Snowboarding affords that similar feeling of travel, to negotiate, indeed, command the earth beneath your feet as you leave a trail of S curves. The ride always unearths something primal and ferocious in me. Such is the case that any sign of a head cold vanished during the day, only to resurface the moment you put away all the gear and sink your bag of bones body into the tub like you wish to not return.
Still I'm dreaming about those slopes, the way I dream about riding, the way I dream about going back on the treadmill once the body heals. My mind, and body are now acute aware of the passage of time. Only with deadlines do we treasure the seconds given to us, and I fill these days with rage, rage for books, rage for words, rage for the run, to plant my feet wholly to the ground, and utter a rage and love for a world that I want to earn with my limbs.