prose
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Not long after midnight, I went outdoors. The night sky was filled with stars, the wind was brisk, and the wind chimes sang in the night air. I felt more peace in those moments than I had all day. There was nothing in the darkness that frightened me. There was nothing under that black, glittering…
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The red berries on the bush in the backyard were the only color that bleak morning in November. My eyes sat fixated on their crimson coats, for everything else seemed as dead as I felt. I sipped my coffee, eyes transfixed, mind blank, body breathing yet dead inside. My skin appeared as grey as the sky…
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Writing close to the bone is easy – sharing it is another story. There is something about allowing other people to read your innermost thoughts. I liken it to being naked in the town square. People are staring, some pointing, others snickering. The feeling can be exquisitely uncomfortable, but like anything new the novelty wears…
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There are no happy mediums, not for me. It’s feast or famine, full throttle or slow crawl—it is life in extremes, and it’s the nature of the bats. Bipolar Disorder, Manic Depressive, Mentally Ill—none of these labels evoke anything positive. Nevertheless, these are the labels in which I live under. I prefer far less psychiatric…
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Happiness had never really existed. Situations and circumstances masqueraded as such, but genuine happiness had escaped me. If I had one excuse why it had, I had a thousand, but none of that seemed to matter anymore. Excuses were no longer acceptable. The time had come to face the facts and remove the mask. Happiness…
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There are those of us, touched with fire; a fire that rageswithin, threatening to destroy the very mind in which itresides. It leaves behind a chaotic state of a whirling madnesswhich I have become the master of manipulating. There are scars that will never fade, and memories thatwill never free me. Then there is me,…
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Lifeless butterflies, dead and dry, rest in their perpetual state upon a lovely journal that has yet to have its virgin pages marked with the scratching of a barely legible hand. Dead yet beautiful are the butterflies. Promising but empty is the journal. Thoughts can be as fragile as the wings of a dead and…
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The curse of perfectionism laid its heavy hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, counting all the ways I wasn’t good enough. I thought I’d learned not to listen to those whispers, but it appeared I was falling susceptible to them once again. I waited for the feeling to pass. A day or…
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The snow gently falls outside my window as my fingers sit idle on the keyboard. I can’t seem to take my eyes off its falling white powder. By February the snow, while always beautiful, is not all together desirable. Winter drags on and the cold becomes bitter. I miss the warm weather, the rain, and…
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18 May, 2010 – Tuesday, 4:00pm The black dog has been with me for some time now, and even the simplest of chores seem overwhelming. The days slip idly by and I’ve little inclination to do anything about it. I wish I could, and I make mental plans to; but while the body is willing,…
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I heard nothing until he spoke my name. His haunting voice echoed in my mind as I attempted to get on with my daily chores. The day was bleak. Black birds of every kind gathered in my yard, their screeching unable to be ignored. Had they come to warn me? Had they come to announce…
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The black dog came back today, soaking we from the rain. I recognized it immediately. It huddles on the door mat of my front porch trying to keep warm, the chain around its neck broken from the desire to be set free. Cured up on my porch, seeking shelter from the pouring rain, the black…
SB LACROIX 