I've always loved Christmas. Always. But I confess. It somehow feels less merry for me with each passing year. Time seems to be slowly taking away not just my youth, but the magic of Christmas as well.
But I still want to go on celebrating Christmas. Maybe I don't want to give up finding that magic. I can remember how lovely it felt. How warm, comforting, joyous and fun it used to be. Right now, it is still all that... just a lot less.
This reminds me of a Christmas story written by one of my favourite authors, Neil Gaiman. It's not your typical let's-be-merry Christmas tale. It casts an eerie, almost sad glow on Christmas and the jolly old Santa Claus we know.
older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.
The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.
Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves' invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.
He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher
By Neil Gaiman