Maybe I’m just an annual blogger. Maybe it’s just the whole rollercoaster of ‘the holiday season’ which pushes me to write. Maybe I’m just perpetually uninspired for the remaining 364 days of the year.
I guess you’re always meant to say something at this time of year – Merry Christmas and a happy new year. Or some shit like that. Some emotionally empty phrase which bears no resemblance to reality, which doesn’t represent the complex emotions that this season brings to many.
I used to love Christmas, I really did. But it’s so much easier to hate it, and in a way, I love to hate it. I love tearing down the Christmas decorations prematurely, stuffing them into a cardboard box and stowing them away for the next year when I will naively think again ‘maybe this year I will love Christmas’ only to find hatred much easier. I kind of love the chase: exerting such meticulous care in buying the perfect gifts, putting up a myriad of decorations and throwing myself into everything that is ‘Christmas’. Only for it not to feel like Christmas, to just feel like another day.
It’s the resounding sense of normality that I hate. This time of year is meant to be special in some way that I just can’t retrace.