prompt: direction, title: a rolling stone gathers no tinsel in misc. flash fiction

The funny thing about Christmas is, even though it’s supposed to be joyous, its most popular stories are about regret. Whether you’re personally marking Christ’s birth or lamp oils, winter solstice or even a Happy Hondadays saleabration, it’s supposed to be positive reflections upon your blessings, but the tales we hold dearest are total bummers about the roads-untaken.

Scrooge, literally haunted by his wasted life. George Bailey, similarly supernaturally harangued for despairing having his youth stolen by an entire city of defenseless incompetents. A thousand specials about successful business women who give up their accomplishments to be brood-mares for dirt-farmers they knew in junior-high.

Ghosts and angels, old crushes and fair-weather friendships, lining you up against a wall without the courtesy of blindfold, peppering you with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. All the things you wanted but never got, presents and presences never received, that’s what Christmas is for this culture. Yes, there’s usually some happy ending as a matter of rote course in the last four minutes but that’s hardly the point. The meat of them all are our deepest regrets. Christmas as the time for reflecting on all the places you’ve never seen or all the folks you’ve never been. We say this season is about one miracle or another, secular thanksgiving or door-buster sales, but if you believe our movies, it’s a time to feel shitty about lost loves and dead dreams. The original lyric wasn’t “so, hang a shining star upon the highest bough” after all, it was “until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow”.

American media is, of course, poisoned with regret. Rife with time-travel and paralleled worlds where we can undo the past or see how much better things would’ve gone if we’d been just a bit bolder. “Scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago” are the stock American narrative now, so our holiday tales follow suit.

But I’m no angel, and I’m not yet a ghost, and my Christmas wish for you is that you understand it’s all just rubbish. Lies to make you feel worse about yourself so you’ll buy toothpaste and cars in hopes no one catches on to how awful you feel. I want you to know you’re doing the best you can, whatever you’re dealing with, you’re doing better than every other you there ever could’ve. The past no longer exists, the future’s a dream, the only direction is forward. There are no imps to show you how much you suck, only people who know how hard this is too, hoping to comfort you. You’re doing as well as any you ever could in the rigged casino called “life”
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You’re the best you there’ll ever be. Merry Christmas, Happy Hondadays, whatever you’re into, just remember to also celebrate yourself. It’s hard out there, and goddamn cold, but you need to understand you’re amazing for even getting this far. Give yourself some credit. Call it a holiday present to yourself.