I decided to work late into the night and complete something I promised I’d do over the last couple of days. At 11.30 I was really tired and a little cold. I wasn’t sure whether to push on through the tiredness or lay down for a while and nap but gave in and lay beneath the duvet, fully clothed so that I didn’t get too comfortable. At midnight my computer alerted me to the time but by now the drug of sleep had made getting up an unpleasant experience and I gave in and went back to bed. That too was unpleasant as I couldn’t get comfortable and as I turned over a part of the bed was cold. I got up, went to the toilet, then made myself a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal and sat in front of my computer. I then, as is my habit these days, pictured what it was that I was feeling and the picture was of heading into a black tunnel – that tunnel being Christmas.

There should be nothing frightening about Christmas – nothing traumatic has happened for me to associate it with blackness and I won’t be alone on Christmas day. That day is actually a picture of light but it’s a fluorescent, cold, shadowless light; of smiles, good food and general enjoyment yet devoid of meaning. I can see myself travelling towards darkness that will apparently vanish when I arrive at it, only to reappear when I exit the other side. It’s not the blackness of shadows but the blackness of nothing. It’s absolute zero; a vacuum; deep space. It’s like a black hole that isn’t black because there is no light but because it sucks all light into it.

This has been coming for days and though I have had moments of lucidity the fog hasn’t really lifted. I’m thinking that maybe I should give into it and explore the twists and turns my mind has made in coming to its conclusions. We can underestimate the power of our minds to reliably assess the truth yet weave an alternative reality that, as convincing as it is, leaves a paper trail of clues that if followed can unravel the mystery of our subconscious. However, as fascinating and therapeutic as this may be it leaves me with the knowledge that, though I can change my outlook, my circumstance will be unaltered by my consideration of it. And herein lies the conflict. If I were to deduce that I was suffering from some sort of depression I could possibly obtain a remedy that would make me happy. But happiness is just a feeling and is not the solution I’m seeking.

I’m stuck with being utterly disappointed with myself and with prospects that horrify me more than my current situation. I want what many would declare a hopeless wish and nothing else. Christmas appears to mock me and for that I hate it. Yet the opposite of love isn’t hate, its indifference. I’ve recently read A Christmas Carol for the first time and was a little disappointed that it ended so happily because up till then I was strangely comforted by Scrooge’s misery. But it occurs to me now that perhaps my subconscious attitude towards Christmas is, in itself, a paper trail that may ultimately lead me to keep Christmas well, if any man possessed the knowledge.

Humbug anyone?