If daily life mimics my silentthoughts—my swirling, nonsensical, crazed inner dialog—and the subconscious imprints of my deeper self, then there must be some rather inauspicious energy floating about the landscape on which I roam. Or shall I say, race?
A glacial tempest lashes across the icy expanse, chafing my body and soul. And then, things seem to drop from the sky. Like snow. And trees.
And Santa Claus.
Internet source unknown
Yes, Santa: the primum mobile of my inane, rubber-soled run across the permafrost—the weight of the world alongside me—my sweep down the crystalline slippery slope, the inescapable impinging icebergs. Panic swells as I dodge the descending, crimson-suited Kringle, with his threatening Santa claws, and the icy peaks jutting from below. My winter wonderland, replete with holiday hurdles, yuletide yack, mistletoe misgivings, tinseled terror, Noël nightmares.