Gaity radiates an aura this Christmas; a warm sensation overrides the hollow echo within everyone. Strolling the littered rose-red and pine green neon-lit, merry folksmen carol to harmonious festive tunes. People hand in hand, with inked manuscript sheets printed with jingles; vocals of companionship and satiety swivels wholesomely around a lush dewy tree. Music surrounds a horde of hundreds by the fireplace of warmth, with spiritual accompaniment and gleeful indulgence. The winter orchard is overtaken by apt contentment as a blanket of snow sifts the grounds with pure whiteness. With cherished life's sailors, angels in rightful protective arms of the Lord, and family gems, there is nothing else a survivor in today's cosmopolitan city requests to be granted this Christmas. A prompt befalls, that Christmas this year is going to unravel its genuine purpose and meaning. They themselves are gifts presented as tokens of remembrance - heaven on earth. This much, I am held grateful.

Everyone is someone else's guardian angel. It might be you, dear friend.