Christmas is this sweet melancholy-tinged warmth that warms the freezing cold of pale days. It is the red cheeks of the astonished face stretched out towards the sky. Christmas has the meaning of our choice. The Christmas of the festivities, the one that delights with delicious dishes, that of wrapped and satin gifts, that of tunes that make you smile and dance. Then there is the Christmas that wakes. The one that glows inside. That of hymns and of the passing of time. Slowly. Tenderly.
Christmas is what is hidden in the light of time. It is this warmth that comforts, loving. This glimmer of hope that anything is possible.
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