Year after Year

I finally have a tenuous grasp
on the line of thought
stringing one philosophy
and its contradictions
into the next,
when, on the TV in the other room,
a line of "Jingle Bell Rock"
quickly runs into "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town",
which, in turn, gets hammered by "Sleigh Bells".

My fingers form a gun
and I pretend rapid fire,
through the wall,
straight at the television.

Instead of cheer and joy,
I experience flash pieces of memory:
A nineteen year old me
on a long runaway drive,
from shame and guilt -
this cry for help smothered
by Mother's successful overdose -
and everything else that happened
just in time for the holidays.

Even now, twelve years after
the day I ran away,
the sound of "Frosty the Snowman"
still hits me with pain.

I fight hard to supress
the hideous aftertaste
of holiday cheer
with a forceful dive
back into the sea of words
and philosophy mindgames.