Time was, with most of us, when Christmas Day encircling all our limited world like a magic ring, left nothing out for us to miss or seek; bound together all our home enjoyments, affections, and hopes; grouped every thing and every one around the Christmas fire, and made the little pictures shining in our bright young eyes, complete. Time was, for some of us, when those bright young eyes became dulled and yet looked upon those little pictures as realities. For others those bright eyes clouded over, dull and listless, looked back on those days with whistfullness and longing.
I was one of those others as I sat gazing upon the world which now encircled me. The turkey upon the table burnt and charred like the dreams of my youth. The christmas fire but a hearth without the heat. The christmas wreath set out for the enjoyment of other, a hard and deep door away from my room.
I brought the blanket to my face, the scratching wool my only comfort against the cold. My head sagged on a stem of a neck, stretched from years of such things. My eyes closed out the cruel sight as they longed for rest.
When I awoke the room had become light. The silence had been broken. For there infront of me were the fruits of my loins and theirs as well. And as those bright young eyes shone upon me my world became complete.
My limited world unfolded until it was able, once again, to encompass all my enjoyments, affections and hopes. For infront of me was the future- that of mine and the world.
[OK, that certainly wasn't the easiest one to start with. And I'm not sure it really went anywhere, but at least I tried]
First sentence taken from 'What Christmas Is As We Grow Older' by Charles Dickens.
