This is the end.
Of my reading of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, of course. And hot damn, does it ever go out with a bang. Like most of us folk with a beating heart, I find redemption to be a cup overflowing with a spiritual wine sweeter than the finest vintage ever produced. Everyone loves it when arseholes cease acting the damn fool, and Scrooge does it with style. What a shift from who he was at the beginning of the story.
All that it took was a decision to look inside, to wade through the wreckage of what came before and to try to gain some understanding of why we come to be the persons that we all grow into. The Ghosts of Christmas are nothing more than Scrooge’s own spirit calling to him, asking him to take scalpel to his ignorance and perform the life-saving surgery that delivers him from sorrow.
Merry Christmas, you filthy animals. Be kind to each other and give, always give what you can. It’s a heart prescription with more efficacy than all of the statins in the world.
And a Happy New Year, too!
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