Christmas was rubbish. It always is, now that my wife's dead. My parents passed away long ago, and I was an only child. My Christmases are spent going out and seeing if any shops are open so I can treat myself to something good. No shops were today.
I occasionally meet other people who go out and do the same thing I do. We never speak with each other, no matter who it is. We just look at each other as we pass in the street and pass a glance that I can only describe as "understanding." I know what their life story is, and they know mine; no matter who it is, our stories are the same.
All this happens while snow is gently falling onto our heads, creating an interesting little juxtaposition. You've heard the theory that there exist no two identical snowflakes? I'm not too sure what to think about it, but then again, I can't say I've ever seen two, so no sense in arguing it. You'd think humans would be the same, especially since we're so complex on the inside and out. Yet here, on Christmas Day, we have people crossing the streets, looking for shops because they have no one to share the holiday with, people who don't want to ask the other person to share the holiday with them; there's no real bother either way. People who share the same story sharing the street with snow, two flakes of which never do the same.
It's almost a paradox.