The festive marathon has just about started and already I have red wine spilled on printed chiffon. "Go with the flow" seems to be the motto of the season but a suitcase of unsatisfied Christmasses counters heavy against the urge to move forward. Presents bought and sealed appear a wasted effort and detachment is its weight in gold. Appropriation is both sought and deflected, wishful yet rejected.
Occasionally, the internal organ pipes up and jaunty steps signal possible regrowth and positive action.
Christmas is perfect for spending the long weekend wallowing in utter misery, with enough ammo to make Ebenezer feel like a wet hen left out in the cold.
Happiness in all its forms is gloriously addictive, so much so that the worst things are committed in pursuit of the illusion.