Christmas used to feel real. Which is ironic coming from a family whose Christmas lacked all the fundamental aspects rooted in its tradition. The version of Christmas I knew was nothing short of an improvisation of my two immigrant parents, who learned English in conversation, culture by assimilation. The tree itself was artificial, with cross sections that unfurled like mechanical limbs, whose buoyant stems resembled taxidermy. And yet, when I think back to this time I am filled with nothing but warmth. I remember the hours spent glossing over the same TV specials that played the previous year, and yet still finding solidarity in their return. I remember Drake and Josh creating a front yard of fake snow in order to avoid going back to prison; I remember Timmy Turner wishing what it’d be like if it was Christmas every day. And oh, how I slept! The only thoughts that would consume me were of falling asleep in time so I didn’t spoil Santa’s arrival. To be burdened once again with the thought of whether Santa will bring me Pokémon Diamond or Pearl the following morning. To wake up, excited, and my only job to drag my Dad out of bed. Tonight is Christmas Eve, and this year there is no tree. Not even a fake one, and not even the miniature one, that stands no greater than two feet tall, which I have substituted during my last few years after we moved. There are no more TV Christmas specials that I warmly embrace. Instead, it’s video essays about “how bad the economy is” and “how subscription-based services remove the freedom of ownership”. Charts with lines that go up and down, that seemingly have as much pattern as the accidental scribbles of an impulsive kid with a crayon. These peaks and troughs signal impending doom, or unrequited success. These days, sleeping is a concentrated effort. Whether or not Santa is coming the next day, I go to sleep every night thinking about the morning. I fall asleep wondering how well rested I hope to be, as to not waste another potentially productive day. I start unwinding for bed early, book in hand, and wake up just on time, but never feeling fully recovered. My Dad isn’t around anymore to pretend to be Santa, or around for me to knock on his door in time to open the presents for that matter. On Christmas Day, I dread that the only person I have to motivate out of bed is myself. Christmas used to be a sweet time. One of those few days a year where I am protected by warmth, TV specials, and family. I remember how complete the world felt when I opened my very first DSi and had my very own personal camera for the first time. On Christmas Day, I worry I’ll feel I have nothing to photograph, and instead watch the day unfold before me.