Thursday, December 22, 2005

A Chat With My Imaginary Friends Just Before X-Mas

The endless veils of Maya, drapes of illusion; just when one takes something for granted it turns into something else. The only certainty in life is uncertainty. So many people are looking for themselves a leader, some sort of guru-cum-Master of Ceremony: someone who would make all the pieces fit together and make sense of it all. In the end all sacred cows will be demolished, with that little boy who tells us the private parts of the Emperor are showing, and any other names for disillusion.

Christmas is always a regression into one's childhood. To what was lost forever, or was never there. That disillusion and loss were to follow when we grew up, and to claim otherwise was just the greatest pretension of those all. We try to compensate for the loss, of course, by creating around us these enormous armours of indifference, cynicism and cold stoicism, and pretend there is no return to that innocence. Still, how we wish someone would prove us wrong here.

Fed up with Christmas kitsch, though. Plastic angels, Baby Jesus with a submachine gun as an action figure, glitter balls, X-Mas carols muzak and consumer stampede.

From winter solstice on the days are getting longer. To all you who feel you're are merely drop-outs and good for nothing: never lose your hope and the will to keep fighting. To all you intellectuals trying to analyse or qualify and quantify this: don't even try, you'll fail miserably. Happy Holidays.