Memories. It is what I hold as my dearest possession. Yes, over any computer, iPod, jewellery. Actually, the computer holds pictures , Ipod songs, jewellery sentimental value, bringing back memories. So forget what I said.

Every passing millisecond imprints a memory in our minds. Whether we will remember it in 3 minutes or 30 years all depends on what happened exactly during this precise millisecond. Was it grand? Was it stressful? Was it exhilarating? Was it crushing? You tell me.

Your mind is like a desk. Fresh or important memories neatly displayed on the top, others classified in specific drawers carefully labelled "Summer 2014" or "1rst of May 2003", and others, like the thick coat of dust which accumulates between your desk and the wall, long forgotten and occasionally stirring. It only takes a gust of wind, a few first notes of a song, a whiff of perfume, to drag you in the whirlwind of remembering.

Remembering good times is always pleasant. A slight smile brightens your face as you recall how happy you were. You try to grasp every single details of this specific memory, to visualise it, to feel it, to experience it all over again.

Then it comes. A tidal wave triggered by this wind, crashing on you at the horrible realisation that it's gone. However hard you try, it will never happen again, you will never live it again.

Longing grips your guts, you wish you could turn back time to give it one last try. You hold on to the memory, closing your eyes to solely focus on the song, you breathe in deeply the last fragrance of perfume, you caress those soft shells, so small but so important.

What was joy becomes sadness, and in those times, I could call anyone, anybody linked to this memory and frantically admit how I despairingly missed them, how much I cared for them and needed them, how I want them to be here, with me, right now, to save me from my shattering nostalgia.

But I don't. I can't. I refrain. They would believe I'm crazy.

They are half true. I am crazy. Crazily needing them.

It was just another day. Rather blissful day actually. The right equation of hard work + fun = joy.

There are days like those, where harmony blossoms in everything you do, where the Earth seems to turn the way you want it to, and when you relish the idea of your radiating plenitude contrasting with those grim and indifferent faces on the tube.

But here it creeps, insidious and yet unknown of, this little grain of sand scurrying past and lodging itself in this well-oiled mechanism, in the sole purpose of setting it awry.

You hear the news, the story, the fuss. First reaction, surprise and incomprehension, even incredulity. It only lasts a few seconds. Soon, a subtle flame sparks up in your guts, slowly travelling to the bottom of your spine, lapping every single nerves, heating up your blood.

Anger.

No wonder people call it a hot temper.

Flame becomes a fire, fire a roaring furnace, burning down all past feelings of bliss and peace. What was radiating plenitude becomes a rumbling rage, your face closing again to match others on the tube, teeth slightly more clenched, mouth slightly more twisted, your gaze slightly more glaring.

This furnace takes over your body, your mind and you find yourself plotting against the one responsible for the ignition in thousands of twisted and vengeful ways.

It becomes stifling, the smoke chokes you, you are only seconds away from both implosion and explosion. That's where I dance.

Yes, you heard me well. Dance. The safest and most efficient way of letting your feelings loose. The music mingles with the energy coursing through your veins. You abandon yourself completely, letting go of reality, drowning your inner fire in the tune's sweet waters .

As first it continues to broil and bubble, slowly cooling down to a simmer before stilling completely. Here you are, gulping for air, exhausted, charred but somewhat reassured that the fire didn't spread to the neighbouring trees.

Never make the mistake of acting out of anger. Control your furnace. Drown it.

You're walking down the street, I'm walking up. Antagonist cries calling upon us, we pass each other, not a wave, not a smile, barely a look.

Stranger.

You're standing close to me, your head just wavering a few inches above mine. Surely we are heading the same way, however your reason, your life, even your name is as unknown to me as any other tube passenger.

Stranger.

You greet me with a broad smile, ask me how I am, a hand extended towards me. A warm welcome, you think, only I hand you my groceries, the same polite smile, the same polite answer "Fine and you?". Social conventions really.

Stranger.

In the shop together, I have all your attention. You attend to my every needs, always here for a good advice. Your sole purpose: finding what suits me best. Of course, it's your job as a salesman.

Stranger.

You're sitting across me at the coffee shop. Between us, there is only a table, laden with teas and lattes, our words undulating in the air between our mouths and ears. Yet, you seem miles away from me, in some distant place I no longer have access to. I lost the key, the map, your trust. I messed up, I'm so sorry. We used to know each other inside out, my best friend, my sister. Tell me, please, tell me, what are we now?

Strangers.

We women often cry out -especially just after breakups- that all men are heartless liars.

This is true.

Mankind -in its whole- compulsively lies, and women are no exception. I am no exception.

Now I'm not going to talk about petty lies, white lies, or those "How nice it was to spend time with you!" when really it was just horrid. I will talk about a serious lie, the one that has grave impacts on who you are and how you live.

It had been going on for a while, but I was incapable of seeing it as a problem. For me, it was just routine that made life a lot easier and even enjoyable. However, I still had this little voice -you know, your annoying sense of good and bad that keeps nagging you- inside my head pointing out how wrong and even dangerous it was. But I tuned it down. I guess that is a first lie. Lying to yourself, refusing to see the reality. And ending up believing in your own lie, enjoying ignorance's bliss with a hint of discomfort.

Until you are confronted with what you knowingly hid away from others and yourself.

The fatidic question being asked, springing up like a glistening fox trap, and all your fear, your shame and your guilt creeping up your spine like a cold shudder. Your head suddenly feels light and your stomach churns as your heart rate shoots up under stress.

However, you manage to put on your best poker face, to gaze right into the other's eyes and lie. Again. A simple "No". From that moment on, you have officially entrenched yourself in lies. No need for congratulations or champagne. Although I had the deaf relief that I had passed the test, that I had cunningly avoided the fox trap and was safe now, you cannot run away from truth.

And when it catches up with you, when you can no longer hide, when evidence has become too big to conceal it, it hits you hard. Your blissful bubble pops, and you come crashing down, the horrible feeling that you are living a nightmare gripping your guts. Until you realise that this is no damnation, it's salvation.

I am not going to end saying "Conclusion: Lying is bad", because humans naturally lie, and I did after that episode, though at a far lesser scale -you know, those petty lies I talked about at the top of the page. But what I learnt from this is that this fatidic question, this fox trap, is actually a helpful hand extended to save you from the abyss of lying.

So however painful or shameful it is to say the truth when confronted, do say it.

For your own salvation.

Gazing upon richly decorated altars of abbeys and cathedrals, finely chiselled wooden doors of mosques, mystifying eyes of Buddha on temples or the legends as old as time painted on Egyptian temples that I realise the power of human faith.

How we, mere humans, have the strength and fervour to build such grand masterpieces in the name of the one(s) we worship. Masterpieces that last through time and space, retaining the ability to mesmerise us.

How we, lost creatures, have weaved beautiful tales to fight our fears and angst.

How we learnt and defended the importance of compassion, forgiveness, sacrifice, abnegation and mutual help.

But also, how some perpetuated massacres and genocides in the name of Religion. How some murdered innocents for their "holy" quest.

How aberrant misinterpretation has lead some factions to impose the rule of terror and oppression over the world.

Some say, and with reason, that Religion is an illusion, myths and tales to console humans, which science has proved wrong many times.

I'm an agnostic if you want to know. But I can't help but wonder how illusions can push us to such extremes, good or bad...

Who am I?

A cold crisp feel in the air, tickling your nose, playfully biting at your cheeks.

Soft candle light, diffusing soothing smells of cinnamon and orange, creating an eerie and serene atmosphere.

Rich and yummy flavours on the tip of your tongue, accents of gingerbread, coffee and chocolate, spreading a pleasant heat as you slowly swallow.

A certain trepidation, butterfly-in-the-stomach kind of feeling, falling back into this childlike wonder.

A joyous ripping sound, bewildered faces and the plenitude brought by your loved ones.

Have you guessed? I am Christmas, Christmas for the lucky.

Let's not forget those whose Christmas is spent alone, terrified, orphaned, ill, or unhappy.

Next time you do not know what to wish for under the mistletoe, wish that everyone could have a Merry Christmas.