Once, on a Christmas day a long time ago, our presents didn't come to us. They were delivered to, opened by, re-given to us by higher-ups in the genealogy tree. They were colourful and made of plastic, with flashing lights and wonderful sounds.
A little later, our presents were retrieved at the cost of a simple "thank you!" They were filled with toys, wonderful instruments of storytelling and intrigue. Imagination ran rampant, as we played with the same toys again and again, reinventing its use each time and spinning a new tale from the debris of past ideas. We eagerly looked forward to Christmases, filled with curiosity and anticipation of the potential new universe concealed within a layer of paper and cardboard.
As time passed, the stories slowed to a trickle. Toys were scarce, as though age stoppered the flow of imagination; the stories came pre-packaged, in tomes and books and volumes. Uncles and aunties were less eager to buy something which we might not like, and so resorted to ang paos and chocolates, the universal gifts which can be given to anyone.
Later on, chocolates, food, clothes are all normal presents. Who needs giving the gift of stories when you can get something practical, something realistic, something you can use. Anticipation turned to dread as people realized that, oh man, Christmas is coming again and I'm gonna get another pile of shirts; meanwhile I don't know what to get them.
At the end, Christmas becomes just another day in the calendar. As the young folk go around giving their gifts to even younger folk, the old people don't even remember that it's Christmas.
And the stories fade away.
Merry Christmas from The Edna Man
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