I happened to attend a lecture on the symbols of Christmas. I have to admit, I was rubbing my hands together in anticipation. I thought they were going to tell me the whole scary, ugly truth about this holiday.

But things turned out quite differently.

The lecturer was a middle-aged woman, utterly enchanting and ethereal. She read poems and told fairy tales—the only thing she didn’t do was sing songs. The room was warm and cozy; the Christmas tree twinkled with lights, and underneath it, instead of presents, a cat was sleeping. And everything she told us was so kind, warm, and cozy—which was completely at odds with how I was feeling inside.

The thing is, I hate Christmas.

All these lights, red and green in every store window (apparently that’s when conditioned reflexes kick in), all these fairs, and Christmas songs of varying degrees of tackiness.

On top of that, all the snow had melted. And along with it, the last traces of the festive spirit had melted away. Instead of the cozy white blanket that had recently covered gingerbread-like Riga, puddles, cigarette butts, pieces of paper, and other filth appeared (that’s how we found out who had littered before the season was over). And giant icicles even gave one Porsche and one passerby a hard time.

Anyway, how can anyone celebrate anything in these crazy times?

You're roasting a duck with apples in the oven, while someone else is slurping down prison gruel.

You're sitting on the couch, and someone else is in solitary confinement.

And someone is sitting in the basement, waiting for the siren to stop wailing.

And someone in a damp trench.

And someone in the damp earth…

And at that very moment, a few comrades are spooning beluga caviar onto croutons in the spacious dining hall of one of their luxurious residences.

Strange feelings… Strange and not at all festive.

So, to put it briefly, here's where I stand: everything around me is still a total mess, only now there's a string of lights.

And then suddenly, this wonderful woman gave her lecture on Christmas, full of kindness.

It was hard.

And he sat there, almost literally slapping his lips to keep himself from blurting something out.

"There used to be a carnival before Christmas," she said. "Where people committed the sin of fornication, committed murder, and made sacrifices," I didn't add.

"Every ornament on the Christmas tree symbolizes a certain virtue," she said. "Originally, Christmas trees were decorated with the entrails of sacrificial animals," I tried to keep quiet.

The little girl with the matches from Andersen’s fairy tale of the same name was smiling because she was able to feel the spirit of Christmas and connect with her grandmother’s warmth in her soul, she said. In cases of extreme hypothermia, people often experience a deceptive sensation of warmth before death—they may even take off their clothes, I thought.

It was like an exorcism.

My demons hissed and screamed, refusing to let this damn wonderful holiday into my body.

And I thought that, in fact, everything had turned out just right.

After all, if you set aside the excess pine needles, tinsel, and string lights, Christmas is a solar festival.

The longest night of the year is passing, and the days are finally getting just a little bit longer. Somewhere deep among the trees, the first buds are beginning to form. A new cycle is beginning on the planet.

Or, if we are to believe our lecturer, light is born somewhere up above, once again triumphing over death and darkness…

Of course, Christmas won't change anything on a global scale.

But I thought, "To hell with it. Let him."

You can put up a Christmas tree, roast a chicken, and make Olivier salad.

You can put some presents under this Christmas tree.

You can give a hug to those who are close by and call those you won't be able to hug again this year.

May a faint hope—like the flame of a candle on a windowsill—glow within us, that light will ultimately overcome darkness.

Merry Christmas!