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Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Fellow Travelers to the Grave

Dickens poor and in danger of being dropped by his publisher self publishes a little book of staves called a Christmas Carol. The rest of course is history and we are left as 'fellow travelers to the grave' to read this little tale all these years  after 1843 London. And here we are in the same fog with the same covetous old sinner lurching home to be visited by the dead. And we sit by the fire waiting for our commutation with our past and now we know what Scrooge came to find out that we are our worst enemy.

And we are ruled by nothing but the dark side of our soul. Slipping through our Christmas night with the same trepidation and wondering if we will emerge during the day and crying out to the boy, what day is it? And we don't know if it will be Christmas. Ruled by a minority with a democracy in crisis we are the old sinners looking for something from the ghost of Christmas past to  show us the way and so disillusioned with our present we can only look to the specter of the future.

And he is ungodly. This creature who can do nothing but show us the grave as we mow each other down with our three hundred million guns and our moribund congress that cannot do anything for us except bow down to a minority of tight fisted zealots who do not look toward our reclamation with anything but glee at our imminent downfall. On the cliff and unable to even stop our most heinous crimes we can only hope that our future is the things that might of be instead of what must be.

Only the spirits know for sure and we can only wait for the morning of our redemption. Maybe Tiny Tim's final blessing is the best we 'fellow travelers to the grave' can hope for.  God Bless us, each and every one.

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Books by William Hazelgrove