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..."