I Do Not Like Christmas

I hate Christmas

Ignacio Ortega

Writer

There is no ideal Christmas, only those who choose to create a reflection of your values, desires, memories and traditions, but each year we hold your order for any unavoidable law of nature. At Christmas our common identity is turned upside down, giving way to that other person who is part of the huge group of anonymous noise that fill the streets with music, sound bars, shopping temptations.

I do not like Christmas, but it is the compassion piece of grants each year, time of truce to conflict, to the sewers of the passions and intrigues, which are the raw materials, ingredients that spiced the rest of the year the menu of life I do not like because it is selfish, venal, demagogic, stupid, but I aim in my mind the desire to perpetuate the bits of happiness that leaves me, like a picture of arrested time and in a story to you always want to return as imperative to walk through life.

I do not like Christmas, but the only possible time in which I am not lynched, the time needed to touch humans without hurting or being hurt by them, the time which reconciles both the loneliness and the need be perpetually in the company I do not like Christmas, but invited me to the shelter in the smooth and harmonious memories that have happened this year, to love the beloved characters and I hope to remember those who left, to return to the landscapes of children inevitably bring me this time and look on TV, that pet doctrine that provides home and the memory of the sweet voice of my drawings animated children's distant, knowing that Christmas is a liar, false, hypocrite.

I do not like Christmas because it gives way, without mercy, to the havoc that occurs over time, damage of which I am conscious that other image returned to me, for tirelessly repeats the hope of a future of solidarity, because people visionary promise you the illusion of a perfect future better and end up, you see, with a black cat on the horizon golfing bankers and politicians in jail.

I do not like Christmas because it bothers me from my world spring the sight of thousands of beings without looking at me tenderly, they reproach my eyes and wonder if I can take with them some of the burden, some of the loneliness that crawl, and I impose pain, for all Christmas, are invariably so, and because they are repeated routinely as an absurd caricature of our own hypocrisy, inscribed in the genetic memory of our lives, no chance or desire to change it.