Illuminated by the glow of the holiday lights, yelling faces repeat the same, time and again, as they contort in disapproval and condemnation—those who nurtured now murder in so many ways. Movement is restrained; words are stifled. Life, love, and laughter have retired indefinitely. Hide-and-seek games with mirages of elusive illusion have been exhausting as has the boulder of Sisyphus that has weighed heavily on my hands for years, time and again.
Chaos and the comfortable familiarity of turbulence are like old friends stopping in for tea, even after I have moved away and changed my number.
I tried. All the king's horses and all the king's men, could not put it all together again, nor can I. Next Christmas, Peace and Joy is all that I will ask for.