by James Stewart

Created on: June 02, 2007

It is a harsh, desolate place that I inhabit; I do not simply speak of the pounding gale outside, threatening to wrench the door of the hinges, but also the pounding within my mind. It wants to be free, to take over me, to make me its slave. It tears at the walls of my consciousness, screaming laughing, too at my weakness. One day, it will be free. It is this entity within me given power by the coldness, the greyness, the blueness that makes me take the short walk to the bathroom, pluck a razor from the shelf and bring it to my skin.

Laughing at my weakness.

The blood from the broken skin is more than a wound, it is a statement: a cry to the blueness that howls outside, prowling like a burglar trying to find the best entrance, that it will not win, that it will not be allowed to consume me. The red is a dab of paint on an empty canvas, waiting for the artist to fill in the shapes, fill in the void.

Screaming at my weakness.

Numb, I return to my room, a paper towel wrapped around the damaged skin; the scarlet ocean, stirred by an angry wind, will not be stopped by words alone. I ignore the stinging as I retire to my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rage trying to destroy me. Listening to the forlorn howl of failure.

I fall asleep and the walls collapse around me.

And, not looking me in the eye, calmly, they tell me it is "only depression."

Learn more about this author, James Stewart.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.