Age has not been kind to the Monster.
We worship it as children, sleeping tight for its morning arrival. We love the gifts, scuttling to a corner of our houses. We adopt good behavior, out of fear of disappointing its image.
Then, a child grows into an adult, and the image fades. What was once cherished becomes a chore, an obligation that no one can avoid. Joy turns into misery, optimism into pessimism. For the young, it means everything. For the old, it means nothing.
Age has not been kind to the Monster, which goes by another name – many names.
Christmas.
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