Raise Your Glass for Everlasting Life in Everlasting Philistinism (A.K.A I battle with a brick wall)

Its sort-of ironic that I’m writing this at school since it’s the reason for a lot of my pain. Not just mine you know, school puts a lot of people in pain. I’m sure that’s not what was originally intended, but that’s the way it has become. School is a contest. Your personal intelligence is defined by your I.Q., by tests you take that are only made to conform to certain people’s brain, and I wish you luck if you can’t understand something fast enough or if your teacher’s way of teaching doesn’t work for you.

At school they expect you to drop all personal problems at home, as if your feelings are some sort of light-switch in which you can turn on and off. You can’t. We are no machines. Sometimes we lose focus on the fact that the person to your left, and the person to your right, the children you teach and the adult you are trying to one-up, that kid that you only sort-of-kind-of bully, are living, breathing feeling human beings, your own kind. We see them as we want; As The Football Player, the Hot One, the Goth Girl, the Nerd, the Asian, the Bad Kid, the Prissy Chick, the Dyke, the Gay Guy, and so on. We see each other as friends, enemies, challenges, but not as the simplest term, fellow humans built with the same basic anatomy as one-another, the same bones that can break, the same hearts that can stop, the same skin that is flawed, the same brains that control our thoughts. Whether they go home to fights and bloody lower lips, or posh dinners and comfortable living, or both, it is not something that you will always know, for you can never tell what goes on behind closed doors. Yet students, your teachers put you down, teachers, your students smart off to you, peers, classmates, they will make you feel like a king or a peasant only worthy of scraps, they see it as their choosing. Most schools have seven periods, we have eight here at Schrade, including advisory or home-room. We take math, English, science, reading or a second language, history, gym and others, these are only basic classes. Many of us take more than this. We get homework from most of these classes, we go back home to our comfort or pain. We are stressed, scared, questioning ourselves, curious, depressed, anxious and nervous. We are trying to become who we are; all while being told who to be.

To the students, be strong. To the teachers, love what you do, be even stronger. To the school system, you know you’ve messed up when teachers and students alike don’t want to walk through the stained, cracked, beat up doors.

-This started off as a suicide letter

this ended as a speech to fix the problem.

-Pintsized

"Everyone should get a stand ovation....because we all overcometh the world" -Auggie Pullman

  After reading a book and finishing, I often don't even know what to do with myself. I wish I could call up the writer and tell him/her how amazing he is. With many books I have actually grown as a person while reading them (i.e. The Dove Keeper, Reason To Breathe, Wonder, The Sisters' Grimm, The Umbrella Academy Part 1 and 2, The Velveteen Rabbit, Bruised, Run, The Game, and so on.) These books make me want to have them forever, because is all honesty they have added a piece to me. They were a part of the stepping stone of who I am right now. For this, I love reading and writing equally, and I hope that one day someone will read my book and have that moment of almost nostalgia as they look back on the events of my book. I hope that in this life time I can bring that impact on someone.

  On a different, yet still happy note, I am pleased to tell you that this year, is eons better than the last. I have better teachers and I just feel better all together. Don't get me wrong, it is still school and it is still very boring and life sucking but it is SO much better this year.

  Lastly, on a more saddened note, I must tell you a fear that I have been feeling for a few days, maybe 2 weeks now. School started around 3/4 weeks ago and I am starting to feel like it is stripping away my originality and what I stand for. I can feel some of my pacifism slipping away and so I feel as though I am betraying some unknown source. This is the reason my blog has been so neglected. I have started around 4 entries, but not finishing one. I feel the same loss of motivation of last year and I am hoping I can overpower the depression creeping up from behind me.

Note: I miss -A my little Anonymous commenter.

Comment. Share, and Email me please! Motivation is what I need!!

With love, happiness, and lingering fear,
Mayhem

Wake Up Lesson- #3 Us and Them

So, I have decided to make 'Wake Up' as a feature in which I bring everyday issues to your view. Today, we have Wake Up Lesson- #3: Us and Them.

      Since about the dawn of time, we have always been told, or at least always heard, it's us and them. You know, the "populars'" against the "Nerds'", the "Jocks'" against the "Geeks'", the "Gays'" against the "Cool kids'", and inevitably, the "Goths'/alternative kids'" against the world. To a certain extent, I guess the term is nice when correctly used in the right content with the right intent in general. I don't understand the whole "Outcasts" versus the "Populars". I don't know if you have a friend who is Goth or Alternative styled, but one of the biggest complaints is being stereotyped, (You know, Mrs. Walker next door swears she saw you sacrificing virgins.) but we are hypocrites by hating the "Popular" kids.
       Popular, by definition, is someone who's company is enjoyed by many people (Synonyms: Well liked, friendly) so why by our definition is popular considered such a bad thing? Why is it bad to be well-liked? More than once, I've seen someone deny being popular like it was something to be embarrassed about. Why do we consider popular people as our enemies? Sure, we all know the rich, popular asshole, but not every popular kid is a little twat.

      So here's the 'Wake up' part: Pinch your arm, slap yourself, drink some coffee, and wake up. It is not you against all the jocks' or popular kids. I am friends with tons of popular people because they are nice! Who cares if they are rich, poor, small, big, popular, nerdy, social, awkward, those are all just labels that we are given, that doesn't mean that everyone there is the same!! Times in which it is okay to do 'us and them' is here:

Scenario 1: You are a starving artist, no one will buy your work, you and your lover are just skimping by and you feel a heavy burden. Someone tells you that you should give up. That, is a moment of 'Us Against Them' because at that moment, you are battling the world for your place.

Scenario 2: You are not aloud to try out for the school football team because you are a girl, so you and your other friends who play protest. That, is 'Us Against Them'.

        So don't let some one's label make you not want to befriend them. That's just a waste.

"You see us as you want to see us... In the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions" -The Breakfast Club "People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting godamn sick of it." -The Catcher in the Rye "You can't ever find a place that's nice an peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write 'Fuck You' right under your nose" -The Catcher in the Rye Xo -Mayhem

I Hurt In Places You Can't Fix.

"It's like you're screaming, and no one can hear
You almost feel ashamed
That someone could be that important
That without them, you feel like nothing
No one will ever understand how much it hurts
You feel hopeless; like nothing can save you
And when it's over, and it's gone
You almost wish that you could have all that bad stuff back
So that you could have the good"

-We Found Love



"You destroy what you love"

-The Dove Keeper





One day maybe you will see me the way I've seen you.

The swoon in my stomach when I saw you.
The race of my heart when we touched.
The days when you called me crying because you poked your thumb on her thorn again.
Those days we cuddled for comfort.
The painful feeling of being so close to you when we lay in bed, yet knowing I can never touch you.
The way you woke me up every morning, peppering kisses on my face, and we'd cuddle until we were ready to face the world again.
The way you kissed me.
That time you straddled me in the chair, skittering across the ugly tile, just talking of our future.
The times you told me that I was too much.
The fact that you were right in front of me, and snatched away.
How we just sit in each other's company, and are content.
Those days we spoke of marrying one another.
The fact that you will never understand the pain I feel, because you love her, instead of me.
Frequent moments we share that I know I am in love with you.
My body hurts so bad from heartache.
Some days I hate you for it.
For not loving me.
For not wanting me.
For teasing me.
But that is always replaced by love.
I wonder if you know that you can work me like a puppet.
Then there was the day I coughed out the glass shards slitting my throat.
Black smoke into our clear sky.
and what's worse is that I couldn't tell if you'd came to stare or wash away the blood.
In the end I patched my own corpse, and the scarred tissue remains.
Your icy fingers encircled around my neck.
You smile at me as my eyelids droop.
And you blow the sickeningly sweet red dirt in my face.
The wind carries your essence on my being.
My dreams' carry the hope.
Love still has the reigns.
What's worse is that I still don't hate you.
I hate myself.
You suffocated me in pure ignorance.
Red frost under your lips and a poison label on the outside of your cherry lipstick.
I was born a hopeless romantic.
I was born a faithful lover.
I wonder if you can guess this is about you.
I'll confirm your thoughts.

It's about you.

But it always has been.













 

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.