Its that cold again.

That winter.

That christmas.

While the wishes I have in my mind linger

I stop to imagine the timeframe where material, touch, and feel

Are irrelevant.

I try to grasp and control my benevolence

So as not to join in on the usuals, peculiars

Routines they are.

Christmas, not for religion-but for the living.

"Life loving the liver of it."

Christmas, not for gifts-but for the gratitude of beings.

For the appreciation of seeing, and, walking, and talking.

Remembering

Christmas is not for short instances of affection but for the reception of harnessing

love.

I will stand to bend to lay to dream and imagine my mind free from proof

Of any and everything tradition.

I will say to speak to voice to preach how loneliness has guided me through.

Towards the real I exist with.

Christmas has one purpose.

Thankfulness.