I was the sort of teenager who hated being a teenager, and I snarled at anyone who dared suggest that I would look back on those days fondly. I haven’t thought of them much at all in the intervening years, but today it dawned on me that there is something I miss about the person I was then.

I miss being consumed by things. I miss fixating on a project or a job to the point that there was nothing else on my mind for days on end. Forgetting to eat. Forgetting to sleep. I miss talking and smoking in the wee hours with friends who also had to be at work the next morning, talking and smoking and wrapped up in the communion of it until we finally collapsed and slept for three hours before work. (And I miss running on three hours sleep and thinking, “Hey, I feel fine!”) I miss being in love with no thought of the consequences, no inkling of disaster. I miss being enthralled by films and stories, becoming consumed by them.

I miss burning white-hot.

It’s for the best that I’ve faded some, because one can’t sustain that temperature for forever without dire consequences, and one usually succeeds in burning up those around them in the process. It’s enough, I guess, to catch in again in little bursts – out for margaritas a few weeks ago with a mutual friend; when I was writing and defending my thesis proposal; the last time I fell in love; sitting with my family after graduation.