Christmas
I despise the Christmas season. I know my dear Reader must be thinking that one must be a wholly bitter person to be so cynical at a season which should breed 'love, happiness and joy' for all those involved, but for I such things as 'love, happiness, and joy' have been sentiments which have been absent in my life. No, I am not bitter. Hardly that. Rather it is that I have, perhaps by choice, abstained from all mortal pleasures that may distract me from the more important things in my life. Yet it seems that the steady progression of weeks, months and years have seen me transform from a world-wise nomad to a world-weary recluse. I do not resent the life that I lead nor do I resent my rejection of all things pleasurable. It is simply a necessity; for what reasons I need not depart.
As a boy, I was always so fond of Yuletide. I recall, perhaps when I nigh on two or three years of age, the first time that I saw snow fall. I recall how everything seemed to glisten and sparkle in that moment. Things, which before seemed so mundane, were brought to life by the sheer whiteness that coated everything that it touched. This was a time before I had known of the difficulties that life could cast upon a man, before I had seen beyond the garden of my Eden. Even now, those memories linger in my mind like a distant, solitary star. I have known love, yes. I have known it with every fibre of my being but love has long abandoned me. Without her, love has no place within my heart. One must forgive me therefore if I come across as somewhat cynical.
For I, Christmastime is like every other day except that it brings with it some dreaded memories of better times. It is at this time of year that I hearken back to my childhood when everything was so innocent; so light and so gay. I remember the roaring fire by which I would sit and listen to the tales of lore that my grandfather would tell. I recall looking upon this man with ardent wonder and trying with all my might to envision the words he would depart with all the faculties of my mind. I remember the sweet taste of Christmas cake and, incidentally the sickness that would follow from over-eating. I think I remember being ill most of all not because it was a lesson to be learned against overeating but because that it was the time when my grandmother had always been in her most miraculous. Her tender caresses, her soothing words mingled with my infantile whimpering made for a memory which still manages to warm the icy coldness of my being. It is all terribly sentimental you realise.
Now, all Christmas recalls for me is the reminder that one more year of my monotonous existence is coming to a close, and that while everyone else is celebrating their darling little festivities in their darling little houses with their darling tree and darling presents, I am sat here with a book I have read umpteen times and a rather aged bottle of quality bourbon. Those tales of lore are replaced by the idle ramblings of my somewhat senile servant, Latimer, and the soothing words of my grandmother with the discordant shrieking of the chorus members attempting to butcher another sickeningly sweet carol in the auditorium above me. All I ever get for Christmas is a rather unwanted headache. That should not lead one to believe however, that I am resentful. No… Not. One. Bit.
Dear Lord, I despise Christmas season.