"The man said the drinking is handled by pouring it right
And it seemed much the same when he pointed the gun at his head,"
--Slowdive, Ballad of Sister Sue
The sun was already up by the time Gerard woke up, but he didn't exactly know that. The basement sat in darkness, closed off and removed from the world. Similar to Gerard, in a way, but simply, more accessible and with a purpose.
A word. A term, purpose. Life seemed to be dulled out and numbed to the simplicity of sleeping and drinking, getting his hands on some pills. A cycle that he couldn't break free of. A circle with which he was trapped inside like a caged rat.
But, in a way, Gerard felt a swell of pride in those few moments of consciousness before a migraine occurred and the desperate need for alcohol overwhelmed him. He, and only he, was to blame for his self-destructive behaviour. There was nobody Gerard would rather be destroyed by but himself.
He did a pretty good job. Of course, one day, he'd end up unable to destroy himself due to him finishing himself up. Gerard was thrilled with the prospect of finalising something like existence.
-
Frank has never spend time inside his head. It's a dreadful place, cold and bleak. Lonely.
He'd much rather like warm overtones and fuzzy guitar notes and melodies. Music, man. It filled the crevices with passivity.
He was a mess, discreetly. The way he brought upon himself, he was too kind, too quiet. Small, and hesitant.
He wasn't built to last. But he doesn't know that because he dreads being introspective.
It's not that being introspective is bad, it wasn't. Yet, introspection honed in on secluded thoughts. Frightened thoughts.
Perhaps Nietzsche was right in that regard. Maybe the individual was made to struggle against his own people, his own tribe.
Frank dreads it all, but he suppresses those malignant and irking ideas for his life.
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