If it is the Christmas carols that startles you, go back to sleep, you will be safe.

But if it is the Christmas memories that awakened you, don’t look at the snows, you will drown in their pure white softness and you will sank deeper. And deeper.

You cannot withdraw from sorrows as you do with happiness.

You cannot simply make yourself a cake and sleep through the day.

It’s like an abyss that calls to me every year, challenges me, points at me with every inch of the swords and pinches me with its stings.

It recalls; it remembers. It reminds me of happiness that I’ve lost, in which the emptiness has now turned into a pool of sorrow aching with stingy pain.

But it gives me hopes for tomorrow, desperation for the search of happiness, a desire to be loved.

I hardly misses you anymore during the year.

But when the year comes to an end, when it comes to the white season, the white festival, then the pureness and tenderness comes around me again. It buries me like an idiot, into the depth of suffocating dust. I am lost in my memories, but I can’t see your face.

I hide everything deep down below. I hide them away from the world, away from my dearest friends, my lovers and my kins; I hide them away from myself, in case they blind me when I cross the road. I lock them away like Davy Jones with his beating heart in the locker, but I would not be shocked when my key is stolen. I would be so glad, if I could make your place.