I.
The day of Christmas Eve is the most beautiful day of the year.
When the childlike snow of anticipation falls quietly from the sky’s powdery clouds and lands in the middle of the city’s noise where it is polluted by the golden progress of the world.
You wake up. You’ve been dreaming of something you can barely remember. You rub away sleep from your tired, sunken in eyes. Your eyes look like eternity.

You get up, ripping away your clingy blankets and slide soundlessly over the floor. Your hands grip for the door handle of the living room in an alarming anticipation. Strangling, forcing.
An emotionless excitement spreads inside of you. Your stomach is full of butterflies. Butterfly valleys. You force the door open with trembling hands. You stare hungrily at what is to be expected.
There in the middle of the floor is a tree in all its green glory with its long ghostly fingers gripping around Christmas balls and hearts (pulsating, writhing). You reach out after one of the balls, your small fingers closing around it. As you do it, you think about how it only requires a small squeeze before it splinters right there in your hand. That it’s up to you and not God to give and take away. To destroy.

A creating destruction
	A destructing creation

You let go of it to go and sit on the couch. You turn on the TV. You hear somebody in the kitchen. You wonder if maybe your mother woke up – or was it your father?
You get up from the couch, almost as quickly as you’ve sat down and walk over to the kitchen. Not mother, not father but a tiny being, wrapped in red velvet. It’s got your eyes. Lighting, curious eyes, that cannot eat up the world fast enough. It has taken a chair from the kitchen table and pushed it over so that it might peak out the window. It breathes lightly against the window glass and draws hearts in the mist that it’s breath leaves. Hearts and – is that three people, that it’s drawing with its clumsy hands? A mother, a father and a child, from what you can see. That’s how it is, how it should be you can’t help but think. You move up next to it and you’re suddenly grasped by an impulse to make it suffer. The way it sits there in all its childish innocence. You move up next to it. No reaction. It’s absolutely consumed by its own creation.  You reach out a hand. You wish to rub out the drawing, the child’s fine, sickening construction. Tiny, bony fingers collide with the glass in furious, crackling eagerness. And then… Nothing. Like the child’s pathetic finger painting is cut in stone.
The door is opened. A woman with all the irresistible grace of adulthood and labor (at least that’s what he tells her) enters. You want to reach out to her. You want her to lift you up and hold you closely. You want a motherly embrace. The kind that makes hearts melt together when bony chest collides with bony chest. The woman doesn’t look in your direction, instead she approaches the little one. ‘Darling, are you already up?’ She says and reaches out to the child to pick it up.
You jump down from your spot by the counter and follow them into the living room. ‘Is it you who turned on the tv?’ She asks it. She’s surprised. ’I can’t believe how big you’ve become!’ She says. She embraces it tightly and brushes her soft lips against its golden locks.  You follow them and get up next to your mother in the couch. You reach out and you grasp around her skirt, pulling as hard as you can, to get her attention. Why won’t she look at you?
You imitate her, following her eyes with yours. They fall on a picture, a motive. A mother, and a father – and a child. The way it’s supposed to be, you think. You get up from her side and glides over towards the picture, your tiny feet sweeping against the floor the way only a spirit can do. You remember her, as if you were her only yesterday –
You’re interrupted by voices then. “It’s snowing!” The little one screams with a voice trembling with excitement. You think that if it had been just a little more high pitched, only dogs would hear her. You move away from the picture, away from yourself and over towards the window, looking out.
As you stand there, you can’t help but think that the snow is human souls, falling quietly from the powdery skies of heaven, flying, falling on the fragile wings of innocence until they land in the middle of the worlds’ terrible noise where they’re polluted
By other human souls that were once white.
You leave them, as they stand there. You realize, that you don’t need an open door to leave this home. You glide quietly over the grass where snow falls like glimpses of a larger whole. Glides, glided – disappeared. Like so many others.

You take a seat among grandmothers and screaming brats, infants, veterans of war and other martyrs.
You think if maybe that’s how immortality feels.
If that’s how it feels,
How eternity feels.