I wanted to write a jolly song for Christmas, but then I remembered it was still raining. Pouring, the outside world has turned quickly into darkness, without any sign of warmth.
In my Christmas song, I wanted to write about joy, family and good times. I wanted to sing in my song, and cry — tears of merriness, and excitement. In my song, I wanted to write about love: call my beloved ones and raise a glass.
I wanted to write a song about Christmas, mix it with piano tunes, regretting I didn’t learn music. I wanted to compose a Christmas song, play my old guitar, and sing along. Sing about Christmas time, about love and fireplace. I wish I had a fireplace, but all I got are the Christmas socks that I wear only once a year, during Christmas. They’re not warm enough to keep my toes warm. Not this year.
I wanted to play my song to my beloved ones, but I doubt they would want to hear it. They would rather hear their own tunes, and play their own playlist, without my interruptions.
Perhaps I should simply play the old Christmas classics instead, from the old CD albums I own.
There will be another time for another Christmas song. But perhaps it will be too late then to write.