Did we all fall down?

June 30, 2009

I was listening to “Desert Song” by My Chemical Romance and that song completely renewed my love for them. I like The Black Parade and Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge, but those two albums just aren’t the same as I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love. Raw emotion is spilled into each song, and Gerard’s voice sounds amazing. He sounds angry and well… unhappy; if that’s what it takes to write a sad song then My Chem do a pretty good job. (Especially in “Early Sunsets Over Monroeville” which is definitely one of my favorites.)

Sometimes I like lying on the disgusting carpeted floor in my room. I’m either listening to music or thinking. When I heard the sound of the E minor cord on guitar I knew it could be none other than “Desert Song”. Gerard’s voice sounding deep comes in letting each word drag on. And let me just say, the word “morgue” never sounded so appealing until I heard this song. No, it isn’t just because Gerard was singing it, but he sort of romanticized death in this song. He sounded wonderfully pained if that doesn’t sound too confusing.

Well after all, we’ll lie another day
And through it all, we’ll find some other way
To carry on through cartilage and fluid
Well did you come to stare or wash away the blood?

later going on to

From the lights to the pavement
From the van to the floor
From backstage to the doctors
From the earth to the morgue,
Morgue,
Morgue,
Morgue.

There isn’t a meaning to this post, I was only sharing my opinion.

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Just a dream, right?

February 12, 2009

02/12/09

Last night I had a dream. You see, I don’t really like dreams. Mine usually seem to be connected to inner fear or just something stupid that scares me while I’m asleep, though when I think about it later it seems idiotic. It wasn’t terribly frightening, though it was strange. It had something to do with a couple topics I’ve had on my mind a lot recently. Cutting and To Write Love On Her Arms. (In fact I’m wearing my one of my TWLOHA tees right now.)

In this dream I was in some hospital/psychiatric ward. The setup was similar to parts of my house, yet like a hospital at the same time. It was vacant. I wandered the halls with a few of my family members (I only remember my mother and Eleanor), yet I kept ending up in the same place.  As if I was going in circles. So while wandering these empty halls alone, they seemed dirty or abandoned. Finally I came across a bed, in which was my former house guest, Abby. I was scared I didn’t know what to say or do, I didn’t want to go pleading sorry. I ran back in circles, trying to think things over. Finally, I entered a bathroom. In that bathroom I found a razor blade. No, not a three bladed razor you would use to shave your legs. I razor blade. I began to cut little slits in my hand, the one I remember most was on my thumb. I hesitated a moment and went on. They were not very deep, but enough to sting. Blood didn’t ooze, but I saw blood. — My hands are shaking while I type this post.– I was tempted to go for my wrist, but I didn’t slice through the skin, only because I had a fear of “bleeding it out”. All through school the thought of cutting racked through my brain, and I was scared.