Petrified forests

Something written shortly after Christmas...
As the sound of reindeer bells dances over the horizon and Rudolph's nose steadily weaves back to the North Pole, the forecasts predict that the fog of the holidays is creeping back up and shouldnt show up for another 10 months or so.
It is these times, in the unhindered vision that lies in the crisp, wintry air of a retreating year, that my thoughts turn back to a simpler time. A time before my decisions impacted me fully. A time before life's pox marks dug into my soul.
Like the end of a movie, I see visions of people in my past springing up for one last curtain call. A cast of my past popping up for one last glimpse to see if I learned the lessons they had to give me. Sadly enough, I learned most of them. And I prefer the illusion I had when I was young.
As a borderline alcoholic back in my days, I spent most of my time trapped inside of my own world--a slave to selfish pleasures and an employee of my own--with no time to spare on the satisfaction of others. When I look back at my time in purgatory, I see a confused boy, scared of growing up and facing the pressures of old age. Sometimes, as flaky as it sounds, I wish I could talk to him. I wish I could ease his fears of growing up a nobody, or worse yet a failure. I wish that I could tell him that others shared his fear, which he would realize if he would sober up enough to listen. "Listen more," I would say. "Pay attention."
But the line has since gone cold between the me and him; there is nothing but static on the other end. I am unable to tell him to appreciate his friends now, before they wonder off too far to be reached. He is still young and stupid, thinking life will go on the same forever.
As the days go by, though, I hear the words from a song he used to like coming from the distance like a distress call that is reaching through time.
"It's been a long December, and there is reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last..."

About gambling

Like most my semi-nomadic brethern, who work their asses off in order to buy another weeks worth of roof over their heads, I just finished what I like to call the "rent rally"--which includes a hard fought sprint, waiting tables in order to keep your rent check from bouncing.
Suffering of worn-out legs and a distaste for whatever requires getting out of the house, I went to an online poker room, prepared to sacrifice steaks for Ramen Roodles in order to let luck sort it all out.
Starting with $10 in my online account, I started my journey.
"What have I got to lose?" I said.
Obviously too much.
I sat down at my computer, poised for the reality of what may happen, paralyzed by the fear of what I knew was going down. And went down it did.
Yet, one pure fact can be skimmed from this sludge: the sirens of quick money are usually lying behind razor-sharp cliffs, hiding their blood-soaked fangs until you get within their reach---only the lucky survive.
That alone makes it an unacceptable activity for either the optimistic or the gullible.

Creative juices

As must be the case for any aspiring writer, I have spent countless hours trying to hone my "skill"--reading countless articles and stories and trying to mimic the different styles in my own creations. But recently I have wondered whether I have any gift at all.
I also wonder that, if I was given a gift, is there anything I could have done to lose it? Is it one of those things that is around only temporarily, only to leave me at the first instance it is ignored? Have I lost the message that God intended for me to deliver?
The answer to those questions, like most others, escapes me. Perhaps I have hit a lull in my creative cycle; perhaps I bitch and moan too much. Whatever the case, I guess the point is to constantly be using your gift, don't ignore it and allow its muscle to deterioriate in the confines of indifference.
Some say suffering comes with the territory.
Like Hemingway said, "We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously."