Oh, Christmas, you merry monster of memories from lost childhoods with faded corners! I only dare to whisper in my most gentle voice, but I (almost) hate you. Even if it’s not a popular statement, that will bring me applause. Christmas, you laugh at me madly and cruelly whenever I dare to open my eyes. You show my hungry soul what it lacks and repeatedly turn the dagger in the wound. I feel tortured by your sparkling lights, cookies with rainbow-coloured sprinkles, tranquil tunes and glittering lametta. This joyfulness is hurting me if I am blunt, regardless of the potential of how much I would be able to love it from the bottom of my heart.
Christmas is easy to love for children with big eyes, for lovers carrying gifts with oversized bows, for families who don’t encounter each other using the f-word and for all the enthusiastic hallelujah singers from the church choir. But what if you don’t fit any of those boxes and don’t come with wrapping paper around your heart?
The loved ones receive even more love on long December nights, but what about the sad, lonely and lost ones? The ones who don’t come in clusters, pairs or hordes but just as an edition of one? For them, your festivities are like slap after slap in the face, making them feel even more alone and making the lights at the tree the darkest thing on earth. So ho, ho, ho, here we are, the tree is up, I am my own gift, and that’s all. Merry Christmas to you all! Lost souls are always welcome under my tree.
Picture: Philipp Mueller
Model/Makeup/Hair/Set: Sara Streule
Dress: Pepper Row from Hanimanns
