A story about a man, a women, a bottle of wiskey, and the Xanax that helps him fly.

FLYING WITHOUT WINGS

 

Some days I feel like nothing

I always feel like nothing

And I drift away

They take me away

And I lie
You all lie

And this is my finest act
To pretend I'm fine

And I can’t breathe
No one can notice

That’s not that much new
Nothing's ever new

No darling, I’m fine
I only want to die

I swear
Maybe

Just let me lose myself in the bottle
Tell me no

And until I feel the pills
Take them away

I’m dying
But I never lived

But I’m beginning to fly
While my feet touch the ground

I feel the red one
I'm scared

Its working
I'm leaving

Yes doll
No doll

Oh yes
Oh no

Life is great
My life's a wreck!

No worries dear
Please save

Just let the pills take me away
Just take the pills away

Let me fly away
Don't let me go

Take me far way
Don't let me leave

Let my feet escape the ground
Keep me on the floor, your my gravity

Fly
For I have no wings



-Summer Rains
8/20/13

The Adventures of Summer Dust

Night Terrors
A short story written by: Summer Dust
Inspired, and dedicated to:  Sarah (PkmnLadySarah)

 

Italy wakes up, shaking, sweating, stomach swooping, mind racing, in her dark, and serial-killer free room. She sits up, breaths coming shaky and scared. Her legs tremble beneath her as she lifts herself up to turn on the light switch. The light is blinding as it illuminates her white walls, a few pictures and a Batman poster, but mostly blank, scarred white walls. Her breathing slows, steadying, and her body calms. It was just another nightmare.

She hasn’t had nightmares in years, not since she was a little kid, but lately she has been awakened by horrible scenarios that barely ever even cross her mind. She doesn’t watch much horror flicks, (and when she does, she sleeps like a rock) and she isn’t easily frightened. She doesn’t get spooked by things that most girls her age are scared of.  You know, spiders, camp stories, horror reads, listen to music most people fear, all those creepy crawling animals? Those she is volunteering to hold. So she can’t understand these nightmares. The most frequently accruing night terror is the one she’s had tonight. It goes something like this: a serial killer is dumping women’s body in my dad and I’s backyard. I see him and call the cops, but the operator keeps joking, though my life is truly endangered. The serial killer breaks in and I always wake up after the first time the axe hits the door.  Now, like clockwork, I take the next step: calling my best friend.

Three rings later, I hear a sleep ridden ‘hello?’ like every other night.

“Jessica, its Italy.” I said. I always felt bad for waking her, but she insists it is fine.

“Another one?” Jessica asks, now sounding completely awake.

“Yeah, the one about the axe guy.” I sigh.

“Again huh?” She ponders.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I am seeing a recurring synonym in your dreams.” She informs me.

“Really? What?” I question.

“Think Italy. Every one of your dreams stars you, and your life being endangered, but you always wake up. Have you ever wondered if it is your brain subconsciously telling you something?” Jessica interrogates.

“No?” I say, the idea never crossing my mind until now.

“How long has it been since you last cut?” She asks.

“2 months since the relapse.” I answer solemnly.

“I think you brain is telling, or in your case, proving, that you want to live.”

“How so?” I ask, confused.

“You are always put in a situation of death, and you always wake up before death comes to you. You are like the operator that puts your life in danger, you joke around with suicide and death by cutting yourself. You put yourself in danger like the operator does, but you always live, because you don’t cross the line of death, but you get so close, like the killer does. Note the axe; he makes the first ‘incision’ into your door, a step closer to you, to your death. Every time you cut, you are taking yourself a step closer to your death. So when you wake up your scared, because of the situation you were in, but also because that situation was that you almost DIED. So I think it is your subconscious telling you, at the time in which it has most control-sleep-that it, as a part of you, wants to live. So, I guess it is a painful reminder, trying to remind you why you don’t cut. Go to bed, goodnight.”

“Crap.” I say after moments of silence.

“Holy crap” I said again because seriously. Why can my best friend interpret my nightmares better than I can?

I lie down on the bed and close my eyes. Before I drift I promise myself I won’t cut ever again.

It’s been a year since the nightmares and a year and two months since I was a self harmer, and I haven’t one had a nightmare since.

 

 

By the way guys, I started a tumblr (not in continuation of this blog) and it is going to be the adventures of my life! So if you are interested in what goes on in my daily life, go there! I am new, so beware serious  newbie ness, I haven't posted, but will today! This results in me changing my screen name from 'Mirror Mayhem' my Killjoy name, to 'Summer Dust' a mix up of my real name, and my google name 'Dust Rat'. The link to my blog here: The Adventures of Summer Dust

With Bravery, and Intense Feeling of Mortality I Bring to You: The Tortured Arist.

I think I am learning what exactly being a 'tortured artist' is.

 Imagine, that everyday something inspires me, and I have all this inspiration and all this potential- and I have no where to put it.

Too young. Too stupid. Too dumb. Too ignorant. Too inexperienced. Too girly, or not enough. Not enough tits or God too much.

So I am forced to try and squish this inextinguishable fire down inside of me and silence the thoughts of pure genius that fill my brain.

And this brings us from inspired, smart, creative, to pressured, stressed, silenced. This, to me, is why many of the best (Gerard Way, Ozzy Osborne, Jimi Hendrix, Frank Iero, Mikey Way, Bert Mackracin, Eminem, etc) do/had used drugs. Every waking moment that you aren't doing something your brain is working a hundred miles an hour, dissecting the world, making songs, poems, books, life summaries, astonishing break throughs', a million ideas, and some times you
Just
Want
Silence.
Drugs hold the ever beautiful front that they will give you this 'peace in the mind' and for awhile it does. But everything is temporary. We learn how to tame our thoughts and focus or minds but it is a constant battle that more times then not we are failing than winning.

 It is amplified for me. I am too young to do anything ground breaking with my life and I sure as hell don't have the money, so I must literally smash, push, shove it down and hope it stays ("And baby when they knock you down and out, it's where you outta stay" -I Don't Love You ) there because you can't take it anymore. It isn't a faint whisper, it is a battle cry, a screech for attention and it is causing you, and me, to suffer. It affects everything. In these moments of inspiration I can't breathe, mind racing, feelings exploding, head spinning, fingers twitching, eyes shut, sitting back clutching a dream I am agonizingly waiting to fulfill. Not a day goes by, not one.

It hurts, it's painful. I would consider myself a 'tortured artist'. There are days, moments, seconds, hours, weeks, months, there are years in which I want to be drunk- high on something. Just get me out of my fucking head because I can't take all this. It's too much to handle, too much, too much.

So what do I do in these times?

I have two choices to pick from, one is to suffer through it, and make it out alive, one more time, or to get high, do something, temporarily numb that burning pain inside.

Most my (conscious) life, I chose option number two.

It was so much easier, so much faster, so much better, so addicting. 

Slitting my wrists, smoking some weed, mooching some cigarettes, stealing some alcohol. Anything. Just get me out.

Lately, I have been choosing option number one.

It hasn't been easy, it has been a absolute fucking war. In the middle of the night, I think of everything, mind racing, the blood under my arms, throbbing. Waiting, anticipating that first incision in my skin. Every scar is there, I can feel them. And the desire is so drastic I am arching my back off the bed while pinning my legs to it. I am literally fighting myself. Walking in circles, gripping my hair, screaming into pillows, clawing, rubbing my arms. Eventually it stops. A lot of times in order to get me through it I listen to My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade.

So it is the hardest thing I have ever fucking done. Ever.









Be brave enough to pick option one.




With bravery, and intense feeling of mortality,
-Mayhem




And a song about this, about drugs, additction. It is good. I recomend you listen to this.

Comfort In Your Company

 Comfort In Your Company

You stare at me from across the room
in the darkness the T.V. light looms
The window portrays a full moon
The house walls protecting us from the evil and ghouls
But evil being the least of our worries
the ghouls are unimportant despite their furry
We,
are trying to find our destiny
and who we are
and contemplating if we'll go far
and we discuss our dreams
and our fears
and we hug each other to suppress the screams of our agony
trying to avoid thinking of our peers
I look into
your icy blues
Pale, freckled skin
and the feeling of comfort begins
shaky breaths
scared of the unknown
but never to fret
you have your comfort in your home
sandy hair and a half real smile
you talk of all things
happy and vile
and you feel instant relief as she trots into your life
because without this girl you wouldn't be alive


By: Summer R. A.K.A Mirror Mayhem



With love, life, and the best of liberty,
-Mayhem

Uhg. Pizza Hut man.

When I talk on the phone, I am the awkwardest person you could ever hear.

Seriously, before I call, I plan out what I am going to say.

How a normal functioning human beings do it:

"How much is the vegetarian pizza?"

"A medium is 12.99"

"And how long are you open?"

"Until 9 AM mamm"

"Thank you."

"No problem!" 

How me, the failure of life does it:

First, I have to pep talk myself.

"Okay, just say "Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?" Don't freak out okay, okay. Dial the number."

This cues the 5 minute process of me looking at the phone and back 5 times to make sure I have the number right.

Then, after this, I press: CALL

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

Ring.

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

"Pizza Hut, how may I help you"

"Hi. How much are the Vegetarian pizzas?"

"Uhhh, uhm, Urr, Shit. Um, how much is the Veggie pizza?"

"12.99 for a medium."

"Err, uhm okay"

This, cues me hanging up and then remembering I forgot to ask how long they're open. I then face palm and settle for coffee because I don't want to bother them again.

Mayhem