THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS (ANNOTATED FOR HYPER-AWARENESS)

’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring—

OK, but, like, quiet in the way a paused movie is quiet, where everything is still technically happening, just not advancing. Like, the TV was on mute, and I was probably midway through a prestige drama I had already decided was “good, actually,” but not compelling enough to demand my full attention. And my phone was maybe face-down, which, if I’m being honest, is a move that is less restraint and more just buying a couple minutes. But I was awake anyway, which would feel to me mildly like participation.

The stockings were hung by the chimney, with care—

and, honestly, that right there is one of those phrases you only say once a year and never thoroughly interrogate, even though it raises questions! Like, what does “with care” mean in this context? Care relative to what?? Who is the audience for this care???

The children were nestled, all snug in their beds—

well, I just have to tap in here to say that’s where the poem, like, officially loses jurisdiction over my life, because my wife and I don’t have any kids.
What I have instead? Time. And screens. And a browser history that suggests I spent most of the evening thinking very hard about a lot of things that do not matter. Like whether Alexander Skarsgård is actually good or just tall. Like whether the Bond franchise peaked in 1997 or 1999 and what that says about me as a person. Or like why a thing I enjoyed briefly now feels like a personal responsibility, and then I’m thinking even harder about why that thing mattered anyway…

So—

and, look, this is going to lack any kind of meter or rhythm, but—

I—

yep, just I, because my wife is asleep, reasonably—

I, in my cap—

well, it’s bargain-bin leisurewear, OK? Really, just a pair of heather-gray Champion sweatpants that exist solely to signal emotional surrender and a truce with mirrors at this time of year when I’m not capable of accepting the current state of my body—

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap—

except “settled” isn’t accurate here, it’s more like I’ve reached the part of the sleepless night where thinking becomes recursive and I start re-litigating opinions I’ve already published. Mentally. If not publicly.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter—

and, for real, for a second I think, “This is it. Here we go. This is the end.” Not because I believe in magic. No. But because culture has trained me to expect an inciting incident right about at this point, and it’s preferably something I can immediately contextualize. But, it was nothing. Because it’s always nothing. And yet…

Away to the window I flew like a—

went. I just went. Because despite everything I believe about adulthood, I still obey narrative momentum. “Flew” would be hyperbole, I’m just going to say it.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow—

looked exactly how it’s supposed to look,  which feels pretty suspicious. Y’know when something matches your expectation that precisely, it just starts to feel less like nature and more like a screen saver. And that’s when it hit me:

This entire night operates on inherited assumptions.
We repeat these lines every year.
We recreate the conditions.
We dim the lights.
We lower the volume.
We agree—without saying it—that nothing new needs to happen for this to count as meaningful.

When what to my tired eyes should appear—

and this wasn’t out of wonder, but recognition. Recognition that this is the rare night where pop culture stops demanding novelty and instead rewards familiarity...

The same movies.
The same arguments about those movies.
The same songs that only work this week.
Because we collectively decide that they do.
Recognition about how much of my year I spent analyzing things that were supposed to be disposable. How much pleasure I’ve taken in overthinking objects
designed to be consumed and forgotten. How the internet turned that impulse into a personality trait and then has quietly dared me to stop.
This isn’t about Santa, it’s about the idea that if you recreate the environment precisely enough, something internal might follow…

And maybe it does…
I check the time.
I do not check my phone (and this feels intentional), then I eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, go up to bed—not triumphant, or renewed, just willing to accept the quiet for what it was offering. And I thought–not exactly a thought, I guess more like a conclusion–that if Christmas has any real magic left, it’s this:

For one night,
We stop trying to optimize the moment
And allow it to repeat itself.

Merry Christmas to all,
And to all a good night—

which I don’t read as a promise. I read it as permission.

#SeasonalOveranalysis #CulturalInsomnia #HolidayMediaBrain #PopCultureAsCondition #RepetitionAsComfort #NarrativeMomentum #PermissionNotPromise #OverthinkOrDieTrying