Arctic Beetle

We don’t celebrate Christmas.

Replacing the sound of the fit of the fireworks nearby is the collision of the drib leftovers of the brief round of rainfall against the roof of the rear-side neighbours. Everyone in the family is fast asleep while unusually, the lights of the houses in proximity to ours remain to be put out. Greetings in the form of text, wall posts, and tagged photos continue to pour in, albeit in a much slower rate than during the first hour of the day. Communication lines tend to be clogged in the face of these universal occasions so perhaps some of the recent texts sitting in my inbox were meant to come in along with the first few greetings. As a matter of fact, the realization that the 24^th had handed over its dominion over the fourth dimension to the 25^th only came about when greetings started trickling in. On another note, there’s presently a growing riot in my stomach and despite having had the option to feed my appetite, I thought better of it, partly owing it to the fear that my mother will mistake it as an act of partaking in the season.

I don’t know how else I could have phrased that in a less dismal manner but it isn’t as strict as it appears to be. Consider my belief as a legacy, something that was passed on to me by my parents and I received without inquiries. No one who claims to be a theist ought to question his faith, as it is an instinct often viewed as the other facet of the duality along with reason. (But I believe they go hand-in-hand, similar to how Calvin or Hobbes seems incomplete without an “and” adjoining them.) That, and the influence of the fact that we were all, at one point in our lives, impressionable youngsters who swallowed and never spat. Now what we have is a Sarah refusing to jar out herself from complacency by not doubting. I don’t exactly enjoy entertaining the thought that I might wake up one day and discover the foundations of my belief falling apart. Though if I got the carte blanche on my spirituality when I was younger, it’s likely everything would stay the same except for the confidence gained anew in walking about the path of a non-conformist Christian.

Aww.

Our precepts admit exceptions too; it’s the reason why I get to participate in parties and in the habit of exchanging gifts during this season. And it is not so much about us not being bigots—still, we are no bigots—as us avoiding the hassle of having to back-up our insistence not to celebrate Christmas with Biblical citations, in hope of explaining ourselves to everyone. (This is when the convenience of the President’s ease to call news conferences seems desirable.) Moreover, I find it more satisfying to celebrate His birthday in moderation daily than assigning a particular day to be excessively compassionate, not to mention be a more steadfast lapdog of capitalism. But permit me to clarify this: I love this season for all the positive chi it brings to the table.

I don’t greet people but I do greet back. Inconsistencies abound my personal tenets, don’t they? The rationale behind this can be explained by those Happy Birthdays in Facebook from friends totally oblivious to the fact that their greetings are 2 or 3 days late; and that this very lateness is more of a consequence of them being made aware through their Top News feed of the great flood of posts on your wall rather than a manifestation of their thoughtfulness. But nonetheless, I personally find these late greetings deserving of a thanks due to the initiative of these friends to make their remembrance of this worn out but well-meant thought known to me. To individuals who sent out their greetings today, thank you!

So um, I don’t think I’ve shed much light on any of the points I raised but here… in place of a contextual greeting, have a nice day everyone! :)

The digital clock in my room just moved a minute forward– it’s now 10:38 PM. For ten minutes, I will let these hands accede to this faucet of thoughts stricken with frequent shortages. I used to do this a lot as a way to relieve myself of the shackles of grammar and what should be considered literary or not. But maybe this was actually a habit developed as an excuse to write bad. As much as I don’t want to stop, I am short of fillers and my hands are hurting too from the lack of respite since this morning. So now, I will tell you about this loud and uncomfortable sound my keyboard makes, particularly the space key which I use a lot. I digress a lot (and use “a lot” a lot) but just now, I thought of something worth adding on to the idea I built up a while ago.

If my memory serves me correctly, the first time I tried this, my stream of thought did not take me far. Firmly latched onto me were the pressure of time constraint, and the urge to edit, erase and to press the backspace key. I’m actually not quite certain whether my pinky finger hasn’t hit the backspace key in the past seven minutes; perhaps it has become a habitual practice and for this reason, my reality now refuses to categorize it as unnatural. I vehemently wish I didn’t because everything I’ve typed so far will be rendered invalid, and I would have violated the rules of the game then.

Only a moment ago, the clock hit 10:46 PM and that leaves me with two minutes or less than two minutes (for time never pauses) to close this. What else? You know how they say a true writer should be able to write anywhere and anytime with his style unmodified? Too bad, I am no writer– it’s such a big word to call myself or anybody for that matter. Like giving someone the title gamer! Anyway, going back to what I said, I find it tougher to write with a piece of paper and a pen than with a keyboard close to my hands. I wish I can start amending my ways with a tangible journal. Good ol’ instinct tells me this should end in 15 seconds. I have nothing else to say.