Status: On hiatus indefinitely.
This Night, Walk The Dead
Two And A Half Years
[Frank]
Time passes. Things change. Fame comes, people go.
A life of constant transition.
New songs, new clothes, new countries.
Old loves that never die.
Two and a half years and everything changes. From obscurity to obscenities.
My Chemical Fucking Romance.
Lately I’ve been remembering things. Things that I’m pretty sure, didn’t happen.
A late night meeting in a coffee shop with a beautiful girl. An early morning argument by the river, over… something.
But if I remember them, then surely they must have happened. Right?
Maybe the constant touring has started to get to me. Maybe.
Nobody else has been like this though. None of the other guys have started remembering events that never took place, emotions never felt. So maybe I’m just going insane.
Such a pleasant thought, to think oneself insane.
I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I’m beginning to resent the bus. I lay awake at night and stare at the ceiling, inches from my nose. Bunk beds are only fun for so long. Bad daydreams aren’t ever fun to begin with.
Wake up in a café, remembering a person you never met. She took your jacket
Wake up in the bus, remembering a body lying in the dirt. No, it was the gutter
Wake up backstage, remembering waking up in a river bed. What? Was I swimming?
“With insomnia, you’re never asleep, and you’re never awake.”
Amen to that Mr. Palahniuk.
Bob threw drumstick at me in sound check today. Apparently I had stopped playing. I don’t recall it. Last I remember was playing. Then Wham, straight to the head. Which wasn’t so bad compared to all the other times I’ve done something to him. Like taking apart his drum kit during a show. But it still hurt.
And now the rest of the guys make jokes about it wrecking my brain. Nice one guys.
I feel like something of an idiot. Nothing makes sense.
Chalk the jitters up to too many stimulants. Caffeine, sugar, whatever.
Blame the nervous tic on too much time spent playing games.
But these memories.
Why can’t I figure this out?
“Show’s been cancelled tonight, Frank.”
“What?” I whip around.
“Show’s cancelled. Snowed out. Or in. Whatever. We’re playing kickball in the stadium is you wanna join.” Gerard pulls his head out of the doorway and closes the door behind him.
It’s snowing?
A glance outside confirms his words as the truth.
Why is this happening to me?
Why am I going crazy?
Am I going crazy?
Why now?
What happened?
And just who is she?
Time passes. Things change. Fame comes, people go.
A life of constant transition.
New songs, new clothes, new countries.
Old loves that never die.
Two and a half years and everything changes. From obscurity to obscenities.
My Chemical Fucking Romance.
Lately I’ve been remembering things. Things that I’m pretty sure, didn’t happen.
A late night meeting in a coffee shop with a beautiful girl. An early morning argument by the river, over… something.
But if I remember them, then surely they must have happened. Right?
Maybe the constant touring has started to get to me. Maybe.
Nobody else has been like this though. None of the other guys have started remembering events that never took place, emotions never felt. So maybe I’m just going insane.
Such a pleasant thought, to think oneself insane.
I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I’m beginning to resent the bus. I lay awake at night and stare at the ceiling, inches from my nose. Bunk beds are only fun for so long. Bad daydreams aren’t ever fun to begin with.
Wake up in a café, remembering a person you never met. She took your jacket
Wake up in the bus, remembering a body lying in the dirt. No, it was the gutter
Wake up backstage, remembering waking up in a river bed. What? Was I swimming?
“With insomnia, you’re never asleep, and you’re never awake.”
Amen to that Mr. Palahniuk.
Bob threw drumstick at me in sound check today. Apparently I had stopped playing. I don’t recall it. Last I remember was playing. Then Wham, straight to the head. Which wasn’t so bad compared to all the other times I’ve done something to him. Like taking apart his drum kit during a show. But it still hurt.
And now the rest of the guys make jokes about it wrecking my brain. Nice one guys.
I feel like something of an idiot. Nothing makes sense.
Chalk the jitters up to too many stimulants. Caffeine, sugar, whatever.
Blame the nervous tic on too much time spent playing games.
But these memories.
Why can’t I figure this out?
“Show’s been cancelled tonight, Frank.”
“What?” I whip around.
“Show’s cancelled. Snowed out. Or in. Whatever. We’re playing kickball in the stadium is you wanna join.” Gerard pulls his head out of the doorway and closes the door behind him.
It’s snowing?
A glance outside confirms his words as the truth.
Why is this happening to me?
Why am I going crazy?
Am I going crazy?
Why now?
What happened?
And just who is she?