“Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.”

. . . where people get their marching orders . . .

. . . where people get their marching orders . . .

I know why depressed people get more depressed at Christmas time and people who are normally not depressed get depressed. There. I’ve used the word “depressed” four times in one sentence.

It’s really quite simple. It’s not depression at all. It’s an overwhelming dose of reality dumped on us uncaringly and, for the most part, unconsciously by a society that, for the rest of the year, makes and spends trillions of dollars and runs head-long in ever-more meaningless and ever-more frenzied circles of greed designed to avoid reality.

Suddenly—not so suddenly these days—everyone is talking about life and death and eternity as if they meant something by their palaver.

Depressed people have a special gift that our society has chosen to pathologize because it runs counter to and, if given free rein, might jeopardize our carefully and monstrously laid out running-circles of greed and selfishness. The gift is most often a natural phenomenon, given to the world as part of depressed people’s DNA but rejected by those who don’t have it.

Depressed people think about the futility of our frenzied circles. Depressed people think about relationships broken—in the vast majority of cases—by greed in one form or another. Depressed people think about not fitting in, not being frenzied enough to pile up what others see as their fair share of those trillions of dollars. Depressed people think about how cruel greed makes most people, and, as a consequence, how most people live desperately lonely lives even when they are running in circles together.

Depressed people are overwhelmed by the crassness, the thoughtlessness, the disingenuousness, the hatred, the bigotry, and the violence that are the ultimate results of running in circles of greed.
depression1
And that makes many depressed people want out. Perhaps want to die. We have never been able to find our circle to run in because we can see from the starting line that the race is fixed and cruel. So we sit on the sidelines and wonder what the fuck is going on. And we either say we wonder or we stay in bed and don’t even pretend to participate, and that makes everyone else very nervous.

So you all make us feel guilty and broken because we know the end of this circle-running is the same for everyone. We’re all going to die. Even the people who inherit or make at the expense of others a real percentage of those trillions of dollars are going to die. It does them no more good than the drop in the bucket the vast majority will manage to pile up. Who, by the way, are also going to die.

And then, out of the blue, everyone is talking and singing about and having drunken parties in honor of two mythological creatures who are somehow going to save everyone from dying. Jesus and Santa Claus. And no one except depressed people seems to understand how bizarre, how hateful, how escapist all of that is. And we just can’t participate because we know everyone else is simply trying to pile up more and more layers of physical/monetary ephemeralness onto the circles they are running in, hoping through greed and concentration on themselves to be the one person out of the six billion or so on the earth who will not die.

And if we happen to mention to anyone who is not depressed that we think it’s all futile, that we want to stay in bed and not participate, that we think you’re all crazy, that we’d like to find a way out of this world-wide nuthouse—even perhaps arranging our exit by ourselves—you clamp us into a hospital because we are a danger to ourselves or others, or you pour chemicals into us that dull our feelings. And we willingly participate in this because we are so desperate to be like everyone else that we let you convince us that it’s really pathetic and problematic that we can see the futility of it all.

And blaring over the loud speakers of malls and other places where people get their marching orders for the circle-running are these phony messages of “love and joy come to you,” and “peace on earth and mercy mild,” and “no more let sin and sorrow grow,” and “bless all the dear children in thy tender care, and take them to heaven to live with thee there.”

That’s the kicker. It doesn’t matter how unkind, how freakish, how wildly greedy, how war-mongering and hateful we are, we’re going to live with Jesus forever in heaven.

Every depressed person understands the world-wide cover-up, worked out especially well in “free-market” societies. But it would end the fun if we listened to them.

Pass the Prozac.

‘Twas in the moon of wintertime when all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead;
Before their light the stars grew dim and wondering hunters heard the hymn,
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

Within a lodge of broken bark the tender babe was found;
A ragged robe of rabbit skin enwrapped his beauty round
But as the hunter braves drew nigh the angel song rang loud and high
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

The earliest moon of wintertime is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on the helpless infant there.
The chiefs from far before him knelt with gifts of fox and beaver pelt.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest free, O seed of Manitou
The holy Child of earth and heaven is born today for you.
Come kneel before the radiant boy who brings you beauty peace and joy.
Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

——Words, Huron Carol
——Music, French folk tune

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