December. One of my
favourite words, since it encloses in it all the memories and the hopes of the
future. The silence of the snow, the peace around the Christmas tree, the
warmth of kindness, of remembering the goodness, of the fire, inside of us, the
poetry from an ice rink.
However, most of the
times, December fails to be the above things. Wrapped in commercialism,
December starts to be a month of shopping, of crowded spaces, of running after
a “perfect gift”, of titanic work, of noise, of busy people trying to leave the
impression that they are still alive, that they feel good at parties, family
reunions and so on.
In my tiredness and sickness,
all I want for my December is inner peace. I want to run away in a field
full of snow, where I could skate a little (how I miss its sound and memory),
and sink myself, at the end of the day, in a bath full of hot water, forgetting
about Life for a while.
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