The Longest Night.

Its Christmas eve. Somehow I don't think I'll be too concerned about falling asleep before the fat man arrives this year. I never really believed in Santa Clause. In fact, I didn't ever believe in Santa Clause. Its not like I was born jaded and cynical, its just that mum always told me he wasn't real.

Thousands of years ago, the people of ancient Europe would sacrifice an animal in the midwinter, on the darkest day of the year, when the night was longest, and pray that by their sacrifice the sun would rise again. Because if the sun did not rise, it would be for them, the Apocalypse.

And when the sun rose, and the animal's blood covered the snow, red on white, they would rejoice that once again, their sacrifice was accepted. With their stone knives, they would cut strips of flesh from the carcass and roast them over the fire. And for that whole day, they would dance and eat and revel in the simple joy that they were not dead, that the eternal night had not claimed them.

That's Christmas. Dreadful, inescapable mortal fear, and then simple joy that life exists and that you aren't dead.

If only we could experience such a thing, every year, huddled together for warmth on the longest night, with the elements raging around us, then perhaps we'd all remember the true meaning of Christmas.