Scrooge

I don’t like christmas.

My mother’s downstairs singing away to hymns, everyone’s watching crap TV or whatever the pick of the day is and I’m jiggering around everywhere: I can’t leave the house for long periods of time as I’m not well enough to, but I’m bubbling over with boredom otherwise.

In regards to christmas, there is only one thing that can be said: Eff Off! Only tomorrow, and then it’ll be gone. Thank goodness! We’ve already had the shortest day of the year, so things can only get better buuuuuuut… I hate the start of the year. Cold, no loeaves, , it all just feels so unfriendly. It’s bleak, slowly getting lighter but isn’t light enough yet… then wham summer’s gone. A train out of a tunnel. And for a few months, everything is great. Then you have to go back and hide in your shell. It gets colder and darker all too quickly. See, I reckon May to December are doable: the hope from the summer can last on a little longer, until it peters out in December. But the struggling months. Months that collide with not quite enough to fill them and such. Just nothingness. Months with nothing remarkable about them, except for the fact that every year these same months are marked with the same feelings, repeated over and over with the same memories. And it hurts. Why? Because it makes me wonder. I wonder if things will, or ever can be different. How do times from just over a year ago to now differ? I’m more stable, just more stable… and still low? Still contemplating ‘things’ contemplatatively. And I lose my faith just a little more each time. What is better? What does it feel like? How will I know? Will I ever be ‘better’? Better is subjective; fuck knows what it is. All my duty is, is to keep on going: überleben- to survive.