Love surrounds My Christmas. It comes tied up in a bow large enough to hold everyone willing to believe. My Christmas isn't in synthetic gifts that have desecrated the possibility of a soul. It's found in the food cooked for hours, felt in the hugs that have been far too long without, acts as a liaison bringing smiles among strangers, and lightens the spirit in the air to simplicity.

My Christmas holds excitement. It dresses up the trees with lights and bulbs. My Christmas fills the breadth of houses with laughter and stories. My christmas excuses the over- indulgence in wine, food, and deserts. My Christmas is full of joyous love.

My Christmas has been blessed. It hasn't been undermined by poverty. It hasn't acted as a comparison to the cold and hunger. It hasn't constrained me to a lonely house missing of friends and family. My Christmas has gratefully fallen short of shoddy.

My Christmas emphasizes the brightness. My Christmas takes the short comings of my perceptions and corrects them. My Christmas shines a light on loneliness and grants me the courage to face the fears of the unknown. My Christmas embraces the despondencyrather than chastise it, and brings relief to any feeling of doubt.

My Christmas defies hate, angst, and animosity. And at the end of the night, I alone, will have hope for love.

She walks towards the car, her smile warms the air, and her green scarf accents her outfit. She sits down and her aroma fills the car. 

We ride for a little while. Her words filling the scene and her stories being felt. Her presence bringing an intertwining of emotions leaving no room for words, just this. Her eyes grasp my gaze and hold - the blue is too much for this moment- it's broken by a smile. 

We stroll through the store. She gently and gracefully picks up the books reading the summaries in the back. I cannot ignore her- the books just don't compare. 

Sharing a book, instinct pulls me closer, rationality sets me apart. Her comments, ideas, and creativity all appreciated. She grabs my attention and her warmth radiates to me. 

Her laugh is contagious. Her expressions genuine. The odds are against me. 

I watch her leave the car. My wishes remain unattainable and my imagination disappointed. 

One day I'll tell her. 

The whole idea of writing is an interesting concept in itself. Your brain goes through a process of functions just o come up with the idea to write. From there- it gets broken down into – what to write about and, if that’s not enough, it’s how to write it. How am I supposed to formulate my thoughts into words. How can I sit here and portray to you the exact intensity that this thought possesses. Through words? I’m finding that a little difficult to believe.

That’s all writing is though. Words. Describing what your thoughts are. Which are transcribed from your subconscious. Which is just taken from some sort of environmental stimulus in your present moment. So why do I ask, shall one even attempt to write. To speak? Is this a waste of time for the writer as well as the reader. Because exactly what is it about my thoughts that are important enough to transcribe and share with others?

Writing. Hm. And then there is writers block. Which leaves you with that intense : damn- I can’t think. When in fact. That is just what you are doing. Thinking. So here it is. Writers block at it’s best. And Until it passes- I will sense to what it is around me that is preventing my flow.

Football game, which I don’t particularly care for but do respect the great men who find themselves so talented enough to play on TV. A TV that is being watched by millions of people- your skill being the entertainment and escape for them for the day. Cell phone- which is not ringing. Hair brush- that probably shouldn’t be on the desk but I’m too lazy to put it back right now. I’ll do it later- maybe tomorrow, maybe until someone asks me to move it. I’ll move it until it is preventing the world from functioning in it’s day to day function. That being said- the brush is still sitting there. Next to the colored pencil, not sharpened may I add.  And now I’m bored and moving on.

Try this. X is Latino, Y is gay, Q is a girl, T is rich, J is handicapped.

Now let me ask you this- what association do you have with all of those letters? And better than that, where did you learn those associations? Was it from your childhood friend who used to yell on the top of his lungs “I’m a Latino baby baby!”  that all Latinos are crazy and loud? Was it all the talks at the kitchen table about how gays are different that led you to believe gay people shouldn’t be seen in the same respect as others? Was it the rich man wearing the latest suite and driving in the slickest car that made you believe rich people are happy and better off?

 Let me ask you this.

 Would all of these have the same meaning for the stranger you last encountered? Maybe when the stranger saw the man with the slick car he/she was drawn to the Prozac bottle that happened to  be in the cup holder. Therefore, the stranger now believes that all rich people are miserable. Maybe the stranger has an old childhood friend who just came out to him, leaving the stranger to believe that there is no distinguishable difference between sexuality preferences.

The ultimate meaning that each one of us gives to the world is defined by ourselves, our own experiences, and what we have been personally taught. All of these being different for every person in this world.  And to name it- all relative.