I look up at the clock and realize, Oh, it's already 12:13AM.
My first thought is Jesus, I need to get my ass to bed.
And then, with a nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone, Oh, it's Christmas.
To think, around this time, some odd years ago I would've given anything for the energy to be able to make it to midnight just so I can experience the fortune of being able to open a beautifully-wrapped gift I had already picked out beforehand and purchased under my strict direction by my mother or father.
Nevertheless, being granted the privilege to unwrap that present and call it my own on the beginnings of Christmas Day held such joy in my younger years— something not found all too often in my later years.
The surprise, the novelty— it's all worn off since I earned the capability of being able to buy my own luxuries and treat myself to my own gifts.
My world-weary attitude of having seen it all and done it all before has left little opportunity for surprises, let alone diminish my ability to find the novel quality of life's precious but all-too-overlooked experiences.
I miss being that little boy sometimes.
