The wind is getting colder. I guess December couldn’t wait. Even our office has just been invaded by this lonely plastic Christmas tree. It has perched on a table near my cubicle, and it speaks to me through rhythmic lights. I think it’s responding to some silent tune. Silent Night? Twelve Days of Christmas? Rudolph? I don’t know. I’m bad at guessing Christmas songs.
I kinda like December. The season has this distinct soothing aroma which corresponds to the coldness especially during nighttime. ’tis the soul of pine trees, I say. But I guess my theory is a little, uh, post-colonial.
The sound of artificial bells have found their place at the back of my ears — chimes, clanging, ringing. There’s the occasional tune from rival TV stations signifying that ’tis the season of dope.
Maybe it’s all about the night. The night says it all.