Ilse wrote…


… and I don’t know what to make of it.

3 thoughts on “Ilse wrote…

  1. My dearly beloved man believes Christmas to be a horrific example of false expectations and forced communication. If he were to say to me ‘you are the one who looks like Christmas’ we wouldn’t be spending further time together.

    What does Christmas mean to you?

    Do you want to see her?

    • Well, that’s a different and very accurate take on Christmas and I suspect that Ilse liked Christmas so much because she was not even remotely raised as a Christian and views the whole thing in a more festive way: have fun, over indulge splendidly, exchange gifts, enjoy the shows, relish the treats. She doesn’t associate it with the celebration of the Messiah’s birth or any such thing. I, on the other hand, was raised in an intensely Catholic culture and family, which of course, resulted in eventually realizing Christmas among Catholics is a sham full of nice and empty traditions. And yet, in different places and times, in sad hospital wards, in lonely barracks or in the middle of the jungle, people will take a step forth and for a day or two try and be nicer. Nurses will be gentler and attempt at least modest decoration to cheer patients up, soldiers aren’t arrested or beaten up on the 25th, and mothers in far away little jungle towns will miraculously produce small toys they’ve somehow managed to keep hidden for months.

      Ilse has lived a long life in her 30 years and much of it was not, and is not, very cheery to say the least; but she still holds onto something special and true that let’s her keep her optimism about people alive. I could feel that in her and that’s why she reminded me of Christmas, she still believes in something I had long ago forsaken. She is not cynical about life. So I remembered an old The Cure song and told her she looked like Christmas.

      I’d like to see her but I don’t want to. I can’t give her what she needs, loyalty and trust, and I don’t need what she has, hope and unconditional belief in life. We were infatuated with each other’s impossibilities, hurting and loving each other intensely; she needed to save me to prove her belief in life and love, I needed to be damned to justify my disbelief, too afraid of the pain believing brings.
      We will not meet, even if it is a little bit sad, nothing good can come of it.

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