Christ-mess

So, the day, most of the people expect with trepidation. Decorating their trees, putting lights everywhere, hanging bells over the front door. And waiting for a miracle to come. A rudimentary childish faith, that an almighty wizard will take away their sorrows, leaving a bunch of colorful presents under the tree; that the next year will be better. A smell of pine and tangerines embraces the eve, slowly dissolving in the smell of burnt aromatic wax. Old clock on the wall strike twelve. And a major overflow of wishes comes to mind, and one brokenly rushes to choose one of them to make at the final twelfth stroke... Oh, forgot to say - it's mildly snowing outside...

The eve of broken dreams. Just like a child, waiting sleepily under the table in the living room not to miss Santa's arrival - suddenly realizing in the middle of the night that the magic is gone. That no one comes, except that old and fat ugly man wearing cotton beard and father's robe, looking so much alike your drunkard neighbour: "Ho ho, little kid, were you a good obedient child this year? Santa has something for you!" And you're mixed, you're scared, close to panic, while the parents are standing above and smiling: "Sweety, sing a song to Santa!" - and you can't even burst out crying, ceized with fear, not just when it comes to singing. And they can't understand why you're so afraid of this red grinning face. They will never know, that this very try to prove Santa's existence ruins your childish beliefs... And in the very best case this monstrous lie isn't followed with nightmares for the rest of the year - till the next time.

People are waiting and messing around. They always do. But these days especially, seems like they prepare for feast before apocalypse leastwise.

I stare outside through the long fringe of a table-cloth. The door quietly cracks opening... The nightmare begins.