older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.
The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.
Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts near its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.
He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.
Not my story, but Neil Gaiman‘s. Not my words, but they just as well could have been.
I’ve used this short story before — It was last year’s Christmas. It’s been a year, and I’m sorry to say that this merry occasion still fucks me up… possibly even worse than the years before. Without the material and monetarial pleasures to bribe me, distract me into glee, I hate Christmas.
Like Ole Nick, I’m just not feeling it this year.
No apologies. Just BAH, HUMBUG.