A Pen-To-Paper Creation.

Birthdays make poor holidays.

The advent of our yearly survival of this Earth is a back-handed custom; the receiving of gifts, a trade-off. Something to distract our attention away from the untimely arrival of tell-tale indentations, and perhaps more importantly, lingering thoughts of mortality that encompass the very essence of morbidity.

We are nothing if not superlatively shallow.

The gifts reflect this. Maleup, moisturiser, perfume, clothing - most presents are of an indubitably intimate nature. Such items serve a distinct purpose, this purpose being to subtly notify the recipient that certain improvements are called for. 'You stink', perhaps, or 'You are long past the stage of professing to disguise that as a frown line'. To top it all off, a crowd of smug onlookers who are able to avoid thoughts of their own longevity bellow loudly, the lyrical atrocity that is the birthday anthem, before introducing grotesque cakes of assorted colour and taste that, while providing neither joy nor happiness, do enure that each fresh years spent within the confines of this earth will begin with an ass wice the size as it was the year before.

Heinous customs.

Christmas, however, is different. There are trees sprouting in almost every home, each indescribably beautiful, and each casting a cheerful shade over mountains of gift-wrapped goodwill and generosity.

Carols are sung. They are unselfish, and do not bear the name of any particular beneficiary. The joy is meant for all, distributed by all.

It makes us eager to reach each year's end. I feel that this is important...it breaks up the mediocrity of simply surviving. It provides an incline in the paths we are bound to - a rise that is approached by many, and overcome by many. Braving this festivity alone is needless..unthinkable.

Perhaps this is what I love most about Christmas. The unity. The feel of footsteps upon the same wet, wooden boards as those that my own feet grip warily.

A birthday serves only to scrutinize and objectify, in one way or another. To differentiate between each inhabitant of this mysterious planet.

Christmas seems as good an excuse as any to force we nomads of existence into good company.

No.

It is better. The best excuse.