Ah, the time of the year for holidays!
When there’s so much cheer and joy, and the familiar tunes of The First Noel ring.
Somewhere in the world, snow is falling.
Families rejoice at reunion. Lovers share kisses. Children play.
Yet walking amidst the happy faces, one man felt different.
His hands clutched deep within his pockets – not from the biting Winter cold; but from the furnace of pain tearing up his chest.
His legs walked determinately, so different from the weakness within his heart.
How the lyrics sounded uplifting, but his soul felt so beaten, they felt like stale water in a well.
No one could see the streaks on his face, because he had grown to cry in style.
Too many years of practice, with emotions walled behind a mask of coping.
But honestly, even if he sat down bawling on the ground – who would’ve given a damn?
Too festive; too much happiness – and he was out of place.
It wasn’t hatred – some say he didn’t know how to love.
It wasn’t vengeance – some say he didn’t know how to forgive.
It wasn’t unwillingness – some say he didn’t know how to think.
It was because he had tried so hard that he couldn’t try anymore.
Harsh words linger each day, because no one would give him time to speak his mind.
“Why are you hurting?” No. No one bothered to ask why.
“What did you want that you couldn’t have?” No. No one is going to ask.
“What can we do to help you get there?” Oh my god! No. No one’s going to bring problems upon themselves.
No. He didn’t have a problem. It must be because he IS the problem. Nothing’s going to save his soul. “That’s just him,” they’ll say.
So, while It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas echoes down the boulevard, and where these scenes of warmth and love roll out in front of him, his heart felt colder than ever before. Brittle, to say the least.
So crisp and frail that you couldn’t even tell it was a living, beating human organ.
So much that maybe he wished to break it into the the powdered snow, so that he could give up trying.
No, he was not going to have the warmth of a family; or the embrace in a lover’s arms by the fireplace. He knew not how to stop the tears from falling. Year after year, that was all that could happen, because nothing – nothing could heal him. He had to let the tears fall for so long, until they could wash away the searing pain and let him forget more than he remembered. Crying was the smartest thing he could do, apart from killing himself – because really, nobody’s going to pick up a body at Christmas and deal with it. No, it was too negative. No-one could save him – because all that would happen is someone would brush him off and tell him that he could not overcome his own sadness for other people’s happiness. Selfish as he may seem – what about them? Would THEY give up their moments of joy for his misery?
Oh the abundance of blessings this Christmas!
Would there be one – just one blessing for him – when the world would stop preaching, and start listening to his tears in the tunes?