The Lights are Dying

The lights are dying, and don’t let the blinking lights fool you—they’re just mocking us with a backdrop of red, green, and blue. Every December, Metro Manila along with the rest of the country explodes in color and brightness. Intense greens, deep blues, and searing reds. 

The malls, the condos, the gated subdivisions—they glow ever so intensely you’d think they’re overcompensating. And maybe they are. For whom are these lights really for? 

Certainly not for the family huddled in a dark house, wondering if they can stretch their food until New Year’s and beyond.

Christmas used to mean something. Or so we tell ourselves. These days, it feels like an elaborate trick. A theater of lights and colors, of flamboyant music and extravagant glitters to blind us from the truth: if you can’t afford to celebrate, then it’s not your Christmas to have. 

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼.

A neighbor of mine said it best. I saw him once, fixing a broken string of Christmas bulbs outside in the street. “Dati tuwang tuwa kami magkabit ng christmas lights,” he said, the shame in his voice cutting deeper than any confession. I didn’t know what to say to that. Who would, right? I guess all the glitter in the world can never bring back the reality of a better present. It is all in the past.  

And that’s the thing about these lights. If in the past, they shine to bring hope; nowadays, they glare intensely, only to remind you of what you lack. They serve to illuminate that which is already in the dark: the unaddressed poverty in the streets, in the cities, in the country. They illuminate the cruel divide between those who celebrate Christmas with overflowing tables and those who can’t even afford a single plate.

I see these lights everywhere. Dangling atop malls. Towering above subdivisions that hide behind walls and guards. Meanwhile, outside, children wander barefoot. Selling rags. Begging for coins. 

All of that is perfectly clear under the same glow of Christmas.

Because the lights burn too bright, too insistent even, as if daring us to put up with this is joy. Maybe we really can pretend, if we squint hard enough. But for me, every blinking bulb feels like a slap in the face. 

A reminder that Christmas isn’t for everyone anymore—if it ever really was.

The truth? These lights aren’t alive. They’re hollow. They don’t celebrate anything real. As bright as they are, they just cast harsh shadows over the places they don’t reach: the homes with no Noche Buena, the children who don’t get toys, the parents who can’t even promise a hot meal.

These lights don't comfort the grieving. They don't warm the cold. They certainly don't make the hollow silences of empty hearts any less deafening. All they do is continue to perpetuate an already exposed lie; that this season still has meaning amidst this economy, even though the contrary is becoming more apparent than not. Because you can't buy, string up, and hang up joy like these christmas lights, but maybe you can strip it all away. 

I want to tear them down, every last one. Pluck them from their perfect thrones and let the darkness reclaim the streets. Let their wires dangle, their glass bulbs shatter, and their circuits short out on the ground. 

But no one wants that, do they? They’d rather the lights keep blinking, lying, and pretending everything is merry and bright. 

And so the lights will stay. Blinking, lying, and smug, long even after Christmas has passed. They’ll burn on, uncaring, while the rest of us sit in their cold, mocking glow. Like a moth to a flame; all of us are blinded by the lights. 

So yes. The lights are lying. And honestly, you know exactly who to blame.