Christmas time is here. It's impossible to type that sentence without hearing the piano melody from the Vince Guaraldi Trio and recalling the sentimental words:
And ancient rhymes
Of love and dreams to share
Dreams to share: such an irresistibly romantic notion during the holiday season. Even hard-bitten cynics and people scarred by the ghosts of Christmases Past want to believe. I know this because I am such a person.
But wanting to believe does not always make it so. Wanting something to happen does not mean it will happen. Not even during Christmas, the season where most of us have been trained since childhood to anticipate getting what's on our wish list. Santa Claus will make it so.
For months now I've secretly hoped for a great Christmas, one to make up for last year's gut-wrenching debacle (and one that would put to rest my fears of a black end to 2012). I woke this morning with hope in my heart because I was alive and a breakthrough seemed more likely than ever.
Within hours I realized how foolish I was.
I have no one to blame but myself. Others may change their minds on a capricious dime and disappoint, but I'm the one who chose to ignore the clouds and look for sunshine.
I chose to pretend the nightmare actually has a happy ending for me.
So once again the Christmas season is here, and once again the weight settles on my shoulders, and once again I will carry it for a long time. How long? I don't know. Besides being pitch-black, the abyss roars with indefinite silence. My body aches. My brain feels dull and hopeless. I resist the urge to snog. But junk is my Borg, and given the reality of life in the abyss, I understand the futility of fighting.
The world swirls around me. I'm getting dizzy. And sleepy. Very sleepy.