Metamorphic Nöel
written by Zilent1
~ + ~
written by Zilent1
~ + ~
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all throw the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.'
The Christmas rhyme that is so true in time. A younger me, all tucke du in bed, happily and impatiently waiting for that magical day to foll on. The magical day of Christmas. The Christmas tree lights switched on, neatly wrapped presents lie waiting, and the trio of chocolate-chip biscuits and slowly-warming milk anticipate their final destination into the jolly fellow's tummy. While the young ones reluctantly fall into a deep slumber after threats of 'no presents from Santa', the adults sat in the lounge doing 'grown up things'. Then the house grows black and quiet.
'While visions of sugar plums dance in their head.'
Despite the warnings and rules of waking up pre-half sevem, cheerful children run down the hallway towards the lounge, prepared to rip open their presents with glee. Groggy non-morning parents sloth-walk towards the 'room of doom', wishing for it to be later or a cup of java.
After noticing the disappearance of the cookies and milk, and the increase in gifts, the rubbish begins to grow and new toys are explored. Before long, breakfast is eaten and the family arrives. How joyful Christmas mornings can be at the ripe age of nine.
Five years down the track, and the annual stress festival's eve day has come again. Another annual ritual of wasting your money on a religious-turned-commerical holiday. A merchandise-owner's dream.
After shoving the kids out in the tents, the adults talk loudly in the shed, annoying some restless kids. One kid with a 'bunged-up leg' comes out and seats herself amongst the adults. But when midnight strikes, everyone's gone. No treats for Santa this year. Again. The depressed-looking tree stands hum quietly in the corner, a moderate pile of $2 gifts wrapped in newspaper huddled underneath.
At the ungodly hour of five a.m, eight midgets bang on the backdoor, demanding entrance to the tree. Annoyed Nana unlocks the door and reluctantly grants them entry, mutterin obscene things under her breath. While seven of the misfits open their presents, the missing one with the 'bunged up leg' is riding up and down the street on her old bike, in her pink pyjamas. The good little babies don't wake until eight.
And one mutters, "I wish I slept that late."
The rest of the day is groaned upon. A merry Christmas has turned into a stressful Christmas. But that solitary hour between Even an Day still holds of the magic of Christmas. The early rituals of Chirstmas are lost over time, but one can never forget.
And I heard him exclaim, 'er he drive out of sight,
"A Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!."'
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there.'
The Christmas rhyme that is so true in time. A younger me, all tucke du in bed, happily and impatiently waiting for that magical day to foll on. The magical day of Christmas. The Christmas tree lights switched on, neatly wrapped presents lie waiting, and the trio of chocolate-chip biscuits and slowly-warming milk anticipate their final destination into the jolly fellow's tummy. While the young ones reluctantly fall into a deep slumber after threats of 'no presents from Santa', the adults sat in the lounge doing 'grown up things'. Then the house grows black and quiet.
'While visions of sugar plums dance in their head.'
Despite the warnings and rules of waking up pre-half sevem, cheerful children run down the hallway towards the lounge, prepared to rip open their presents with glee. Groggy non-morning parents sloth-walk towards the 'room of doom', wishing for it to be later or a cup of java.
After noticing the disappearance of the cookies and milk, and the increase in gifts, the rubbish begins to grow and new toys are explored. Before long, breakfast is eaten and the family arrives. How joyful Christmas mornings can be at the ripe age of nine.
Five years down the track, and the annual stress festival's eve day has come again. Another annual ritual of wasting your money on a religious-turned-commerical holiday. A merchandise-owner's dream.
After shoving the kids out in the tents, the adults talk loudly in the shed, annoying some restless kids. One kid with a 'bunged-up leg' comes out and seats herself amongst the adults. But when midnight strikes, everyone's gone. No treats for Santa this year. Again. The depressed-looking tree stands hum quietly in the corner, a moderate pile of $2 gifts wrapped in newspaper huddled underneath.
At the ungodly hour of five a.m, eight midgets bang on the backdoor, demanding entrance to the tree. Annoyed Nana unlocks the door and reluctantly grants them entry, mutterin obscene things under her breath. While seven of the misfits open their presents, the missing one with the 'bunged up leg' is riding up and down the street on her old bike, in her pink pyjamas. The good little babies don't wake until eight.
And one mutters, "I wish I slept that late."
The rest of the day is groaned upon. A merry Christmas has turned into a stressful Christmas. But that solitary hour between Even an Day still holds of the magic of Christmas. The early rituals of Chirstmas are lost over time, but one can never forget.
And I heard him exclaim, 'er he drive out of sight,
"A Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!."'
