sol.ace_r

Christmas.
I’m getting through the day without having reached any conclusions,
and yet the streets are glittering.
Lights come on behind shop windows,
and songs that usually slip past my ears linger for no clear reason.
Some people walk lightly, as if they’ve been waiting for this season.
Others lower their heads, pretending it’s just another day.
Facing the same date, everyone stands at their own pace.

I try not to make Christmas into something grand.
I’ve learned, more than once, that the bigger the expectations,
the faster the heart grows tired.
Still, I can’t be completely indifferent.
When I see a lit-up tree on my way home from work,
my steps slow down without me meaning to.
I stop for a moment, look at the lights,
take a photo that means nothing in particular—
and then delete it.
Not worth keeping, perhaps,
but not something I can pass by without a trace of hesitation either.

In this season, people’s hearts seem to split more sharply than usual.
Some fill their calendars with plans,
while others face the empty spaces more clearly.
Those looking for a reason to reach out
walk the same streets as those choosing reasons not to.
Laughter and silence placed side by side.
Somewhere between them, I look at Christmas—
not from the center, but always from the edges.

There was a year I spent Christmas with no plans at all.
Nothing happened that would be worth remembering.
I woke up late, opened the curtains,
and took care of a meal without much thought.
The television kept spilling cheerful stories,
so I turned the volume down.
I stared out the window for a long time
and suddenly asked myself whether I was lonely or not.
The answer didn’t come easily.

Christmas is often called “a day you’re supposed to be happy.”
That phrase hurts more people than we think.
It makes us hide what isn’t okay,
and prepare a smiling face in advance.
But the heart isn’t that simple.
Joy and exhaustion can exist together,
gratitude and disappointment at the same time.
Christmas doesn’t erase that complexity.
If anything, it makes it more visible.

So I wish this day wouldn’t be used to measure people.
Whether it was good, whether it was fun, whether it was meaningful—
I wish we didn’t have to ask.
A day that acknowledges simply getting this far as enough.
For someone, that acknowledgment alone
might be the gift they need most.

There were times I waited for a white Christmas,
thinking that if everything were covered in white,
my heart might feel a little more orderly too.
But there were many Christmases without snow.
And that’s fine.
Christmas doesn’t demand a completed scene.
Even a day where nothing happens
has its own place to stand.

I like the air of the day after Christmas.
The trees haven’t been taken down yet,
and the streets return to their ordinary faces.
In the space where the excitement has drained away,
there’s strangely room to breathe.
Only then do I realize
that what this day left us wasn’t a great joy,
but a brief pause—
a day when it was okay to push ourselves a little less.

For someone, Christmas can still be a painful day.
A time when departed people come to mind more often,
when unmade calls weigh on the heart.
You don’t have to force those feelings away.
Christmas has no obligation to make everyone smile.
If each heart can remain just as it is,
that, too, is enough.

As the night deepens, the lights go out one by one.
The city grows quiet again, like any other day.
But something remains.
The thought that it’s still okay to expect warmth,
the certainty that even if today was lacking,
it can still lead into tomorrow.
I want to believe in that residue.

So this is how I remember Christmas.
Not a day you have to do well,
but a day that confirms you endured.
A day to set down, for a moment,
the feelings you don’t have to show anyone,
and take a breath.