[WP] An essay on the decay of western civilization as shown through the decline of cookie quality, from the perspective of Santa

I can remember every name.Every little boy. Every little girl.The good ones. The bad ones, though no child is truly bad.I can remember what each wants. I what each dreams and hopes for.But I cannot remember the last time I had frosting.It's an odd thing to think about, isn't it? Why should it matter? I have had enough frosting to last a thousand lifetimes, why should its absence be remarkable now?Because I know what it means. Because I can here those desires and wishes of those little boys and girls. I can see how they have changed. They do not ask for joy any longer, they only want to be safe. They want to know where their grandparents have gone. Why they must move every year. Why their parents are so afraid.Children with everything cannot help but ask for a little more. Not because they are greedy and selfish, but because wishing for a little frosting in their lives is the natural outcome when their needs are met. When they feel happy and secure.There is no frosting any more because there is no frosting left. How can they offer what they do no have? How can give what they do not know?I can hear them.Santa, I want my grandpa to feel better.Santa, I want to go outside.But I cannot give them what they want. Cannot give them what they need.I give presents, not miracles.----I can still remember every name.It is easier now, because there are fewer to remember.For much of my life, the list grew longer, stretching out as the world teemed with life and a future beating in forth with the force of billions of a hearts. Those billions are gone now. Day by day, the list grows shorter.The cookies are not sweet now. They are dense and brittle things. Little bricks shaped in creative ways to evoke memories of a time when cookies were made of spice, sugar and magic. They are still an offering though, a holdover tradition from a time when there were laughter and trees and glittering ornaments.The wishes are different now too. The children no longer ask to go outside, because they have never been. My travels are no longer marked with the lights of homes. It is just a yawning stretching darkness, lit only by the reflection of the cloudy moon. I travel across the deserted land, gazing down on the traces of a time before the surface was abandoned.If I try, I can still remember the names of those who lived there. Faded, but not lost. They live on in my memory.When I arrive at the dwellings of those that remain, there is no door and chimney. There is a looming door, fortified and withdrawn. I still find my way in, doors are no obstacle to one such as myself. I find the cookies where they are left, nestled in a communal alcove just inside the vault door.What they want and what they need are the same thing now.My gifts are paltry. They are derivative of what exists in the world and this world has shrunk along with the list of names.There are no longer good and bad lists.There is just a list of those that remain.-----There are no cookies now.There are just decorated stones, etched with designs handed down from generation to dwindling generation.The list is very short now.Not billions.Not millions.Not thousands.Hundreds.It is easy to reach them. They are clustered in a single place, a last redoubt in a cold and barren world.They do not call me Santa. The have forgotten my true name. I am just a spirit that visits when the world is coldest. A memory of warmth to keep the forlorn remnants distracted from the inevitable. They will not escape this place they haunt.The list will grow shorter.Eventually, there will be a list no more.They do not ask for anything now.There is nothing left to give. via /r/PerilousPlatypus https://ift.tt/3olnQ9Q