Steroid Santa
Santa is able to deliver Christmas presents to every child in the world because he is on steroids:
Steroid Santa: guardian of the redeemed physique.
Let the numerous chills be shared.
Make Christmas pure as a perpetual prodigy packed and ready to go.
Festivities not only laid bare, they overflow.
This is a torrent, a hurricane religion, not a private opinion.
Santa with beard that had never known a trimmer, only ice and wind.
At Christmas a supply of hedonistic willpower is covering you.
We need Christmas otherwise manhood will become a penis mob let loose.
On Christmas day sexual function slips away.
Santa's veins are like arctic rivers that fit into the blood stream whatever kind.
Venturing into spirituality is not for lustful or the sensualist of the land of the living.
Christmas is a time of peace. One does not even tremor with tiny toughness, it is hidden, sequestered, concealed completely.
Time and place and this and them affairs come to a standstill.
Without believing in Santa, one develops a rather tilted karma.
Make Christmas into pure bleach sediment.
Deploy or groom absolute cleanliness, or else one will not be a member of the human race.
Elves own the earth by refusing to exploit it anymore.
Steroid Santa has his own throne in the north pole, sprawling surreal gospel.
Be swollen beyond mortal proportion availeth.
Good communication requires one to kneel to Christ in a mercy dash.
Secular communications decay symptomatically.
The decay: trust erodes, attention fractures, everyone shouting into the same void with better microphones.
The question is, how do you entertain yourself after Christmas? Football and cricket stadiums do not have wonderful splendour architecture; they are a precinct of the economy scarcely entertaining.
Santa runs on belief: unoptimized, unbuckled belief all around the world.
Break thy secret chains into a plague of pieces.
Teaching and doctrine have nowhere to go unless you disguise sullenness, then suddenly the lesson is welcome.
Santa’s workshop is sort of funny all created in a retro rewinding of history.
The North pole is an animated and functional landmark.
This is a fast-tracked revolution.
Fantasy without hesitation, muffling reality to forge something greater.
The creed deepens so that it is sharable.
Weirdos are known to exist, which is the ultimate rejoice.
Christmas signals peace. It is easy to be hooked on life without impact.
Habits are suspended into traps, throw them out.
Hearth fire in the endless winter is in limbo, if you’re cool heat is not transferred within the body; are fires really necessary? Who needs fire when you have auroral smear?
Chill arranged in the approved configuration of calm competence.
Yield murky redeemed breezy physique.
Daily life is just like Christmas, except it is just a wee bit rugged, seething, grotesque in the long run.
The sleigh bells rang like cash registers.
The expression of tears of having a professional demeanour.
Professional demeanour is the last chain most people never notice they’re wearing.
Not all Santas are assigned with courtesy, providing presents becomes merely a campaign, just like capitalism.
Gift-giving be tamed, packaged, and sold back to the people who once believed in it for free.
Presents are the last wild thing you haven’t been forced to monetize.
Remember what giving felt like before it became content.
Santa has seen them in the eyes of the old reindeer who pulled too many seasons without rest.
Faces now faceted with countless incubated eyes, reflecting nothing and everything.
Giving had become a campaign. Generosity, a transaction. The reindeer wear sponsored logos.
Gifts once meant something fiercer than a campaign.
The worst thing to crave at Christmas is the alphabet.
Letters lined up like obedient reindeer, pulling the sleigh of every story ever sold.
The only reward is the next sentence, the next line, the next unsigned gift left in the dark.
The term ‘speech replace’ his here. Pash one’s lover under the mistletoe instead.
Guard the edge of tyranny of neat sentences, stamped with approval, delivered down the chimney of the mind.
Murky enough to reflect the clouded sky rather than demand sunshine.
Christ enters as the ultimate, herculean elf, born in a borrowed stable, working miracles without portfolio, owning nothing, deconstructing every empire that thought it owned the earth.
Give, because the night is cold and someone smaller is shivering.
Santa would be an idiot not to provide presents frequently because you never know what tomorrow will bring.
People that don’t believe in Santa are unmotivated to work.
It needs to work, it must work, Christmas engraved in the mind.
On Christmas, cheer for trashing triathlons, athletics, and exercise.
Why celebrate something that turns your body into a lurking wreck.
Delerium stares back at you.
The love of confusion touches the soul indecipherable.
Eyes burning with unquenched fire.
The Holy Ghost gives a rumble of approval.
A conspiratorial shaping of giving and receiving is a means to survivability.
Belief in Santa isn’t childish: it’s survival.
Excell in something miraculous.
An occasion for innumerable presents and amusements right throughout the year.
On boxing day and thereafter Christmas resumes with the crystallization of puppet eyes.
Nevertheless, be swamped by reinforcements of fabulous funk.
Eyes gleaming like twin auroras.
The weather, a storm-stilled miracle of being seen and still held continuously.
Resurrection in the raw, wear pyjamas on Christmas day, life excelling over death, love excelling over abandonment. Formal clothing is not needed at Christmas, even if you ice up.
Nudity is the apparel of loneliness. It covers nothing.
Oaths are complimentary as the curtains are drawn at construed intervals.
The oath doesn't bind the giver; it completes the circle.
Prefer barrowloads of presents than barrowloads of responsibility.
It is not the absence of responsibility but the refusal to let responsibility become the only story.
Santa doesn’t only deliver presents; he delivers companionship type of thing before it gets flushed away by righteousness.
Santa does not stumble upon regimes, such as capitalism.
Reindeer clothed only in touchable fleece detonated by capitalists.
Santa clothed only in concocted comfort, not in a harness where he knows what he is doing.
Companionship dropped like care packages from a titan who doesn’t ask if you’ve been good - he knows you need it anyway.
The need is never naughty. It's just human.
The only problem at Christmas is if you grossly indulge in food, which requires ultra-digestion in no time at all. Jolly belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly.
At Christmas there is a ban, a bugging device on junk food, a spectral eavesdropper upon festive indulgence. Dinner distortion is dangerous.
Eat too much and you will cough up oblivion candy.
Be hungry for things safe and sound come what may.
Chat and laugh with friends and family without restrictions.
Perfect critical work becomes a sickening farce you cannot retreat from, unless one believes in Santa.
Santa and his powerful allies, the elves, are believed convincingly. People are bombarded with presents all year around. A merry sky permeates the atmosphere.
But busy elves become capsized with hyper-domestic pain. For eleven months they grind. Just the relentless rhythm of eternal preparation.
On Christmas day elves are a lazy crowd… and loving it.
Elves are the eucharist of effort. Sloth-state sleuths.
Elves protect the earth from fading into mediocrity, deconstructing conservatism as a momentous event.
Santa is at one’s beacon call, better than the intimidation of capitalism.
There are moorings of rectification of capitalism around the globe.
People that don’t believe is Santa are cruel buggers first and foremost.
Capitalism is an obnoxious goat, tethers straining to pull it back from the abyss.
Even unstoppable forces must lie down sometimes.
Capitalist investment is not worthwhile unless it is goofy.
Santa is the most popular name in the world, everything else is irrelevant, apart from God.
Flesh born pure as it ever can be due to Christ.
Without Christ, grasped essence just sits there on the ground of a storm.
Grant thy strength to lift the burdens of every fraction of sin, piercing the veil between consensus and individualism.
Invertedly, steroids create a multitude of sieges on the body's protective armour, holy inversion, compelling the soul to command its own alchemy.
From glory to flesh, from power to weakness, from throne to cross, there is no anticipated plot.
Without eternal Christmas life goes bung. A fusion of fun is designated as shagged.
Santa resides in the southern hemisphere as much as the Nirvana North.
Saying to oneself precariously: “I don’t need anything, if I want it, I’ll go and buy; yeah right”
Christmas is devoid of crisis-ridden money.
The legend, carved from conviction and cosmic gains, delivering not just gifts but revelation.
A titan crashing through the night, sky bench-pressing rooftops aside to drop gains and gifts.
Bridge the mundane and the mythic and the gritty, not through hierarchies but through affirmation of close connection with Santa.
No hierarchy. Just acknowledgment that the world was given, and the world shifted, even if only by a fraction, assuming superiority. Some abide by anything under that.
The only difference between Santa's sleigh and people in a car is that Santa doesn't wear a seatbelt.
It is almost certainly more illegal in at least seventeen jurisdictions.
People buckle up in their cars, seatbelts clicking like handcuffs.
Sleigh screaming against physics yesteryear financially.
Rocket scientists are out of fashion, Santa rules.
Cool like nebula dust, warm like a dying star, close enough that you can feel the hum of cosmic static.
And the police? They don't even glance up. No radar guns tracking his impossible speed. No checkpoints on the rooftops. No warrants for the sack full of unregulated joy.
Even a triumph over captivity requires some sacrifice. Victory never comes whole.
It arrives cracked, smoking, missing pieces you don’t notice until the quiet after the storm. That was it, it is all over.
Cars pulled over for going too fast through the night, searching for whatever contraband the law decides doesn't belong.
Sky and geography are the only villains chasing him in a stroke.
Visions of the unbuckled legend manifesting to embrace.
Proof that the belief spreads and the muscles manifest doing no profession or job.
It is immaterial in the best way: weightless yet eternal, silent yet resonant.
Here is refusal to haul the weight of hectic obligation of being a person.
Breath fogging the air like feeble chimney smoke.
Make the impossible land softly under every tree frantically.
Santa's steroids do not make him ferocious, they make him slender, lean, sleek, almost cruelly elegant.
The settlement date for Christmas just become more drawn out.
Feel the season stretching, refusing to end.
It stretches across weeks, months, swelling in the soul long after the calendars say it should be over.
Santa needs to be doing something everywhere, anytime, any place.
Gifts keep arriving, late, unexpected, impossible to account for.
The calendar is a nightmare nursery back for good.
Every circuit of the globe, another delivery run that ignores calendars and borders.
The nightmare that nurses us now toward whatever dawn.
The first gift of a new, unbranded season people can’t wait for.
The next obligation disguised as celebration that there is no cause for thinking.
No thinking or point of view, no more watchdogs.
Under Christ concentration is porous, not reflexive.
Reality leaves us defenceless against wonder. Against belief. Against joy that doesn’t ask permission.
Be disarmed by this. It swells within the soul that no grown-up armour can hold back.
Christmas is enjoyable for adults as well and children. Age is only a thing, such and such.
Christ is for everybody. Triple autonomy: babies, children and adulthood.
Children are exiles remembering home during forward movements.
Their sovereignty is the refusal of finality.
It means shielding the child’s multiplicity against premature specialization.
Triple autonomy means refusing the forced march from one to the next.
No sharp cutoff this year. No sudden snap back to ordinary time.
Christ reckons the distance between what was silly and what might yet be seriousness, whatever.
Let seriousness swell into silliness, devoid of diagrams.
The rational companion chokes with emotion as an announcement of repentance.
Death: the next obligation disguised as celebration.
Christmas carries no obligation to perform or organize anything if you are mixed up.
This moment, this person, this fragile now, is perfect in its imperfection
Delivering not just presents, but proof that even legends can evolve.
Something that doesn’t wrap its gifts in paper, but in shadows and star fire.
Like you’ve lived in that avalanche of belief and still came looking for more.
Set the mind drift across the tundra for a spell from opinions.
No naughty lists, just endless, overwhelming bounty.
Galaxy-slur persists without assurance or guidance.
Something sprawling, alive, unstoppable.
Santa Claus, sliding down chimneys like a shadow with a sack.
Children have got all the time the universe forgot to reclaim.
Rhetoric wonderland is the course for action, refined and pure.
Unspoken farewells of conversation are the reckoning of reformation.
Show we have failed to speak when speech was still possible as a form of silence.
Be unswayed by desire's drag or bias's burden.
As strikingly simple as it sounds, in speculative specifications, Santa is real.
The finalized gospel lands in the snow like a sled at the end of its well-chosen run.
The disinterested gaze may pierce the chaos.
Each ledge a victory, each gust a challenge.
The wind drops to a whisper, carrying only the faint scent of smoke from distant chimneys.
What do we do with all this beautiful, dangerous freedom?
It is absolutely disgusting, shocking with people looking over your shoulder all of the time, unless you are an elf.
Like thunder over frozen tundra, don't miss unspoken silences of snow harmonised.
Gaze out across the vast, sleeping villages twinkling faintly in the long polar night.
Created by Positiv Tolls Tolich Toggle Dominika.
www.tolichtoggle.com.