Between now and Christmas Day I will be like the goldfish at the top of his bowl gasping for air. I don't suffer from SAD because the darkness suits my soul and heart, but because I don't take part in life and only observe it, I realise that I am a conscientious objector to life or to the conditioned life that we are encouraged to take part in without question. The build up to Christmas is like the build up to a boil bursting. Whilst respecting the Christian need to celebrate the alleged birth of their saviour I cannot respect the Capitalists and retail businesses right to make money out of this need. As I get older and a childless Autumn beckons, a Puritanism has gripped me which I have to reign in, as I, as a (self described) satirist and social commentator feel the need to evangelise this natural consequence to austerity. Perhaps it is because I am aggrieved when I see some people benefit from the misery of others. The mistake I have continuously made is that instead of trying to improve my own personal situation by pulling myself up by the bootstraps and benefiting through the hard work of honest toil, I am continuously thinking of ways to try and improve the lives of all, the definition of a socialist to some and a fool to others. How somebody can hope to do this without standing for public office is yet to be seen but there is a palpable sense of time running out. By divesting myself of the need to distract myself by working for reimbursement, I have thrown myself into communicating by social media in return for buttons, red buttons. I cannot multi task so I have no choice other than to commit to caring duties that highlight mortality on a daily basis. When these duties end I will be forced to entertain thoughts of my own mortality, the cost of being a child to loving but older parents. At the age of 51 even if the possibility presented itself, I doubt whether I would put a child through what I have been through, that is thinking that their parents are going to die on a daily basis from a young age. They are still alive and I have got old with them still dreading their date of death. Hence my feelings of Claustrophobia. I cannot escape from the requirements of shopping where you observe and are in turn observed. The basket fills with the usual staples and the soulless voice thanks you for shopping at their particular temple. Boxing Day brings a sense of relief knowing that normal people will be back at work and school soon. The new year brings new hope. I think perhaps January is my favourite month because it is the furthest away from Christmas, closer to the last one and still far enough away from the next one to pull away from the top of the water and instead of gasping for air, start to take shorter more measured breaths.
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