living dead

Christmas is one of those seasons that make me depressed. In the recent five years, anxiety has been my general feeling towards the holidays.

Although a few years ago I would still write a Christmas reflection on how the timeless narrative finds meaning in the confusion of the times. I used to believe those pieces were my theological contributions to the triumphalism of the born again evangelical Christianity that I have distanced myself from a decade earlier.

To sum it up, in my biased opinion: I live a joyless existence.

The sadness magnified exponentially by the 9-month lockdown; the omnipresent threat of contracting COVID-19; the rampant killings; the vilification of activism; the looming fear that we would breach thresholds  that would lead us to runaway climate change.

But beyond that is the personal: the physical exhaustion; the low morale of me and my collective; the recent developments in my personal circumstances that are beyond my control; and finally the paradox of finding meaning and purpose in the precariousness of activism in this current political climate.

I see no hope in sight. No shining light beyond the horizon. I am living dead and living in hell. I wake up to dreamless sleep and open my eyes without any zest for life.

I don't want explanations nor comforting words saying that things would work out well or that there is cosmic meaning in pain and suffering.

Maybe there is--but as far as I'm concerned it is nowhere in sight.