#me hopping at a frantic pace causing only destruction in my wake:

[velvetdestroya]

A Vigil, On Birds and Glass. I woke up this morning still dreaming, or not fully aware of myself just yet. The sun poked through the windows, touching my face, and then a deep sadness overcame me, immediately, bringing me to life and realization- My Chemical Romance had ended. I walked downstairs to do the only thing I could think of to regain composure- I made coffee. As the drip began, in that kind of silence that only happens in the morning, and being the only one awake, I stepped outside my home, leaving the door open behind me. I looked around and began to breathe. Things looked to be about the same- a beautiful day. As I turned to step back into the house I heard sound from within, a chirp and a rustle. And I noticed a small brown bird had flown into the library. Naturally, I panicked. I knew I had to see the bird to safety and I knew I had to retain the order of things in our home, and he very well couldn’t take up residency with us. I chased him (still assuming he was a he) into my office, where I have these very large windows. Just then, and luckily, I heard Lindsey’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and naturally being composed as she is, she grabbed a blanket and stepped into the office. He was impossible to catch, and I began to open the windows, via Lindsey’s direction, only to find out they were screened. The bird began to fly into the glass, over and over and in all different directions. Smack. Smack. Smack! I heard another set of footsteps, Bandit’s, running down the stairs in anticipation of the new day. Her entrance into the situation caused just the right amount of chaos (she was very excited to meet the bird) and we found ourselves chasing the bird into the living room. Knowing that this where it could potentially get sticky, being the high ceilings and the beams to perch on, I opened the front door as Lindsey did her best to encourage our new friend out the door. After some coaxing, flying, chirping, a wrong turn back into the library and a short goodbye to Bandit, he simply hopped out the front door- taking off on the fifth leap. We cheered. I was no longer sad. I didn’t realize it, but I stopped being sad the minute that bird had come into my life, because there was something that needed doing, a small vessel to aid and an order to keep. I closed the door. I decided to write the letter I always knew I would. It is often my nature to be abstract, hidden in plain sight, or nowhere at all. I have always felt that the art I have made (alone or with friends) contains all of my intent when executed properly, and thus, no explanation required. It is simply not in my nature to excuse, explain, or justify any action I have taken as a result of thinking it through with a clear head, and in my truth. I had always felt this situation involving the end of this band would be different, in the eventuality it happened. I would be cryptic in its existence, and open upon its death. The clearest actions come from truth, not obligation. And the truth of the matter is that I love every one of you. So, if this finds you well, and sheds some light on anything, or my personal account and feelings on the matter, then it is out of this love, mutual and shared, not duty. Love. This was always my intent. My Chemical Romance: 2001-2013 We were spectacular. Every show I knew this, every show I felt it with or without external confirmation. There were some clunkers, sometimes our secondhand gear broke, sometimes I had no voice- we were still great. It is this belief that made us who we were, but also many other things, all of them vital- And all of the things that made us great were the very things that were going to end us- Fiction. Friction. Creation. Destruction. Opposition. Aggression. Ambition. Heart. Hate. Courage. Spite. Beauty. Desperation. LOVE. Fear. Glamour. Weakness. Hope. Fatalism. That last one is very important. My Chemical Romance had, built within its core, a fail-safe. A doomsday device, should certain events occur or cease occurring, would detonate. I shared knowledge of this “flaw” within weeks of its inception. Personally, I embraced it because, again, it made us perfect. A perfect machine, beautiful, yet self aware of it’s system. Under directive to terminate before it becomes compromised. To protect the idea- at all costs. This probably sounds like something ripped from the pages of a four-color comic book, and that’s the point. No compromise. No surrender. No fucking shit. To me that’s rock and roll. And I believe in rock and roll. I wasn’t shy about who I said this to, not the press, or a fan, or a relative. It’s in the lyrics, it’s in the banter. I often watched the journalists snicker at mention of it, assuming I was being sensational or melodramatic (in their defense I was most likely dressed as an apocalyptic marching-band leader with a tear-away hospital gown and a face covered in expressionist paint, so fair enough). I’m still not sure if the mechanism worked correctly, because it wasn’t a bang but a much slower process. But still the same result, and still for the same reason- When it’s time, we stop. It is important to understand that for us, the opinion on whether or not it is in fact time does not transmit from the audience. Again, this is to protect the idea for the benefit of the audience. Many a band have waited for external confirmation that it is time to hang it up, via ticket sales, chart positioning, boos and bottles of urine- input that holds no sway for us, and often too late when it comes anyway. You should know it in your being, if you listen to the truth inside you. And voice inside became louder than the music. Now- There are many reasons My Chemical Romance ended. The triggerman is unimportant, as was always the messengers- but the message, again as always, is the important thing. But to reiterate, this is my account, my reasons and my feelings. And I can assure you there was no divorce, argument, failure, accident, villain, or knife in the back that caused this, again this was no one’s fault, and it had been quietly in the works, whether we knew it or not, long before any sensationalism, scandal, or rumor. There wasn’t even a blaze of glory in a hail of bullets… I am backstage in Asbury Park, New Jersey. It is Saturday, May 19th, 2012 and I am pacing behind a massive black curtain that leads to the stage. I feel the breeze from the ocean find its way around me and I look down at my arms, which are covered in fresh gauze due to a losing battle with a heat rash, which had been a mysterious problem in recent months. I am normally not nervous before a show but I am certainly filled with angry butterflies most of the time. This is different- a strange anxiety jetting through me that I can only imagine is the sixth sense one feels before their last moments alive. My pupils have zeroed-out and I have ceased blinking. My body temperature is icy. We get the cue to hit the stage. The show is… good. Not great, not bad, just good. The first thing I notice take me by surprise is not the enormous amount of people in front of us but off to my left- the shore and the vastness of the ocean. Much more blue than I remembered as a boy. The sky is just as vibrant. I perform, semi-automatically, and something is wrong. I am acting. I never act on stage, even when it appears that I am, even when I’m hamming it up or delivering a soliloquy. Suddenly, I have become highly self-aware, almost as if waking from a dream. I began to move faster, more frantic, reckless- trying to shake it off- but all it began to create was silence. The amps, the cheers, all began to fade. All that what left was the voice inside, and I could hear it clearly. It didn’t have to yell- it whispered, and said to me briefly, plainly, and kindly- what it had to say. What it said is between me and the voice. I ignored it, and the following months were full of suffering for me- I hollowed out, stopped listening to music, never picked up a pencil, started slipping into old habits. All of the vibrancy I used to see became de-saturated. Lost. I used to see art or magic in everything, especially the mundane- the ability was buried under wreckage. Slowly, once I had done enough damage to myself, I began to climb out of the hole. Clean. When I made it out, the only thing left inside was the voice, and for the second time in my life, I no longer ignored it- because it was my own. There are many roles for all of us to play in this ending. We can be well-wishers, ill-wishers, sympathizers, vilifiers, comedians, rain clouds, victims- That last one, again, is important. I have never thought myself a victim, nor my comrades, nor the fans- especially not the fans. For us to adopt that role right now would legitimize everything the tabloids have tried to name us. More importantly, it completely misses the point of the band. And then what have we learned? With honor, integrity, closure, and on no one’s terms but our own- the door closes. And another opens- This morning I awoke early. I quickly brushed my teeth, threw on some baggy jeans, and hopped in my car. I gently sped down the 405 through the morning fog to a random parking lot in Palo Verde, where I was to meet a nice gentleman named Norm. He was older, and a self-proclaimed “hippie” but he also had the energy of Sixteen year old in a garage-rock band. The purpose of the meeting was the delivery of an amplifier into my possession. I had recently purchased the amp from him and we both agreed that shipping would jostle the tubes- so he was kind enough to meet me in the middle. A Fender Princeton Amp from 1965, non reverb. A beautiful little device. He showed me the finer points, the speaker, the non-grounded plug, the original label and the chalk mark of the man or woman who built it- “This amp talks.” he said. I smiled. We got coffee, talked about gold-foil pickups and life. We sat in the car and played each other music we had made. We parted ways, promising to stay in touch, I drove home. When I wanted to start My Chemical Romance, I began by sitting in my parent’s basement, picking up an instrument I had long abandoned for the brush- a guitar. It was a 90’s Fender Mexican Stratocaster, Lake Placid Blue, but in my youth I had decided it was too clean and pretty so I beat it up, exposing some of the red paint underneath the blue- the color it was meant to be. Adding a piece of duct tape on the pick guard, it felt acceptable. I plugged this into a baby Crate Amp with built in distortion and began the first chords of Skylines and Turnstiles. I still have that guitar, and it’s sitting next to The Princeton. He has a voice, and I would like to hear what it has to say. In closing, I want to thank every single fan. I have learned from you, maybe more than you think you’ve learned from me. My only regret is that I am awful with names and bad with goodbyes. But I never forget a face, or a feeling- and that is what I have left from all of you. I feel Love. I feel love for you, for our crew, our team, and for every single human being I have shared the band and stage with- Ray. Mikey. Frank. Matt. Bob. James. Todd. Cortez. Tucker. Pete. Michael. Jarrod. Since I am bad with goodbyes. I refuse to let this be one. But I will leave you with one last thing- My Chemical Romance is done. But it can never die. It is alive in me, in the guys, and it is alive inside all of you. I always knew that, and I think you did too. Because it is not a band- it is an idea. Love, Gerard

(Source Rock Sound March 25, 2013) [photo credit; ashley bird]

[shytalia]

A Prince and a Pirate’s Fate - Chapter 3

Summary: When the future King and Queen of the Spade’s Kingdom come of age, a mark appears on their body. Alfred is the kind Prince of Spades, heir to the throne. Arthur is his fated husband, the future Queen. The only problem is, Arthur is one of the most infamous pirates to sail the seas, a wanted man in all four kingdoms, and he violently refuses his place in the castle.

No attempts at capturing him have been successful and he remains on the run, fulfilling his lust for defiance. Alfred, following his nineteenth birthday, decides to take the task of bringing Arthur home into his own hands.

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Also available on my AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shytalia

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Chapter Three

Start at Chapter one here: https://shytalia.tumblr.com/post/611878754309079040/a-prince-and-a-pirates-fate-usuk-fanfic

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The following morning, Alfred woke up with a start. A loud noise aroused him from his slumber in a small inn room overlooking the sea. He was horrified to see the infamous ship beginning to sail away.

“No, no, no, shit!” He threw on some spare clothes and bolted out the door, running frantically to the shoreline where the ship had already left. “Fuck, fuck! What am I supposed to do now?” He yelled out to the sea, causing a few concerned looks from the locals. He looked frantically from side to side, only pausing when he saw a smaller boat not too far down the shore at a different pier. Even better, there was an old fisherman on it.

“Sir!” He waved his arms above his head at the man as he ran towards him, who in turn looked at him as if he were crazy. “Sir, I need to catch that ship there.” He pointed dramatically towards the fleeing vessel. But maybe it was going slow enough for them to catch. “I beg you, take me to it with your boat. I’ll even pay you for your trouble, look.” He dug out a thick bag from one of his pockets, opening it up to reveal shiny gold coins and offered them all to him. He had brought money with him for obvious reasons, but it would be useless to him if he lost Arthur now after he had just found him.

“W-What? I can’t accept this. Young man, this is too much for a simple ride--”

“No time! It’s yours, all I ask if you get me to that ship.” He begged again, urging the greying fisherman to accept his offer. After some thinking, the old man sighed and relented, allowing Alfred to hop onto his boat before preparing for a speedy chase. Thankfully Arthur’s ship hadn’t released their sails fully yet, so they were going at a leisurely pace propelled mostly only by the calm waves. That being the case, it was easy even for a small boat such as this one to catch up to them before they made it even farther out. Their small vessel rocked hurriedly against the current, coming up upon the massive, wooden form.

“Arthur! Arthur, come on! Stop! Arthur!” He yelled, but his voice was hardly audible over the thunder of the waves against the ship.

Their presence did not go unnoticed, however. As soon as Alfred was confident they could over pass the large ship and get in front of it, he was greeted by rifles being pointed directly at them from over the dock. The Fisherman gasped and in his panic turned the boat sharply, not taking into consideration his land-legged passenger.

“Whoa!” The young prince stumbled and fell, crashing into the cold waters below. He managed to resurface, taking a loud gasp of air only to see his only way out, the fisherman, was quickly driving away back towards the distant shore. Wow, did they really go that far out? He could hardly even see the land anymore as he peered into the distance.

A rush of panic pooled over him. He was stuck in the middle of the ocean! He could try to swim back but his heart was already beating hard from adrenaline and the water was cold on his skin, there was no way he was going to have the energy to swim that far without a rest.

What made it worse, he realized the ship he had been so fervently chasing after was now turning back towards him. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” He chanted, making his last dues with the gods because Captain Kirkland was going to absolutely crush him with that ship. But before he succumbed to the violent waves roaring off the wooden vessel, it slowed and turned slightly, until it came to a halt just a ways away.

Confused and scared, Alfred could feel himself growing tired already as he worked to keep himself afloat. He guessed the sadistic sea captain just wanted a front row seat to watch him die. He really was an idiot, now his kingdom would have no future queen or king.

Just when Alfred started to feel himself start to slip ever so slightly under the water, his energy draining out of him, he heard the distinct smack of something nearby hitting the water. Looking, he could see what looked like a large ring floating towards him. Desperate to find purchase on something solid, he used the last bit of his energy to make his way to it and grabbed it.

He sighed in relief and allowed the ring to pull him slowly closer to the ship and eventually even up towards the deck.

It wasn’t until he actually reached the top that his peculiar situation dawned on him. He was just pulled aboard an infamous pirate ship, one whose crew were guilty of all sorts of inexcusable acts, and now he was at their mercy. He was dragged onto the hard wood and breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath. He could feel the bodies surrounding him without even looking. He knew he had to meet his makers at some point, so he slowly stood up and glanced around at the people who circled him like vultures.

Just as he expected, he was met with various different faces, most of which looked like they wanted to rip him apart piece by piece. Others held expressions of curiosity and a few, much to his dismay, looked openly hungry as they glanced him up and down. He swallowed hard and stood his ground, wondering if he would have fared better in the ocean after all. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by a different familiar voice.

“You bloody, absolute, incomprehensibly stupid git !” The voice yelled, a path between the rough men and women surrounding him parted to reveal the shaggy haired captain storming forth. Without hesitating, Arthur grabbed the prince by his soaked shirt and pushed him against the wooden frame behind him, the only thing separating Alfred from yet another watery struggle down below. “What the hell do you think you were doing? How stupid can you possibly be? Augh! I should have left you to die!” He was practically screaming in the young man’s face, and yet, Alfred only stared at him in awe.

“But...you didn’t.” It dawned on Alfred in a matter of moments. The horrible, vile, quick tempered villain of the seas had shown him some level of mercy. It was against everything Alfred had ever heard about Arthur. “Arthur, you saved my life.”

“Like hell I did, git. Consider yourself in debt.” The British captain grumbled in return, face twisting in disapproval at the accusation that he might have actually saved Alfred just out of kindness. “And it’s Captain Kirkland, to you.” He corrected, finally releasing the younger man with a rough push sideways, causing the boy to stumble away from him.

The blonde pirate took a few steps back from the confused prince, his eyes never leaving him. It was like a predator glaring down its next meal. “Take him to The Hole.”

“Huh?” Without hesitation, Alfred felt large hands grab his arms and start to pull him away. Much to his distress Arthur was not following after them and was fading into the distance as he was dragged away. “W-Wait! Hold on, just let me talk to you for a minute!” He struggled to get out of the iron grip that had him, only for it to tighten as a result and pull him faster.

Alfred found himself thrown into a cold cell deep below the ship’s surface and left to sulk there despite how he tried to convince the pirates to do otherwise. “Let me out! I want to talk to Arthur!” He yelled into the dark air, shaking the cell door with loud clunks. This did nothing to affect his captors and he was left alone to wait.

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It was hard to tell how much time had passed as he stayed there in the dim light. He sat on a small cot, hardly better than the damp floor itself but he supposed he should be thankful for it. For a time he waited and listened for any sign of life, but the only sound he could hear was his own breathing and the rumble of the waves outside.

Strangely, it was almost a soothing sound, considering they had nearly killed him not too long ago. The young prince closed his eyes and listened. The waters were powerful and threatening, easily they could grow at any moment and swallow the entire ship whole. Despite this, they rocked the vessel mercifully, and their cycle of kissing the wood helped lull him into a light slumber.

Why did he suddenly enjoy the sound of the waves so much?

They were nice, sure. He had visited beaches and sailed plenty of times to attend to royal duties in other lands, but all those times he had never simply sat and listened. It was like the waves themselves were sirens beckoning him to open his ears and jump in, not some mythical creature.

What was it that had him so unexpectedly fascinated, then?

Was it the ocean's ability to have ferocious, destructive power, only for some divine reason it chose not to use it and gave them compassionate seas instead?

Thump.

Perhaps it is its beauty, the way it shined and sparkled against the sun?

Thump thump.

Or even the way its salt littered the air, forcing him to breathe it in. A familiar scent, where was it from again?

Thump thump thump.

Alfred sighed softly, subconsciously aware of the noise that grew ever closer to his cell. His mind swirled in an attempt to place that taste of salt water dancing on his lips. Where had he tasted it before?

“Oi, are you asleep? Wake the hell up!”

A loud, unforgiving voice startled him from his sleep. He jostled awake, sitting up from his lazy position against the makeshift bed. He stared wide-eyed towards the caged door for the intruder, only to find the one person he actually wanted to see standing on the other side.

“Arthur!” Alfred didn’t try to hold back his obvious joy at seeing the older man, which only earned him another hard scowl.

“It’s Captain Kirkland, you capital tit.” The shorter man corrected quickly. He didn’t move as the prince stood up and practically ran towards the bars, merely inches away from the man he was supposed to marry, but unable to touch him.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t mean to make you so upset.” The wheat blonde’s frown looked sincere, only because it truly was. An aspect Arthur silently thought was too rare in apologies these days.

Still, he didn’t understand why the boy was quite so apologetic about simply calling him by his first name. Of course it was disrespectful to Arthur, he had earned the title through years of work and terror, and did not appreciate some arrogant wannabe from the capital thinking he could address him otherwise. But, most would apologize from fear of punishment, not genuine sorrow. “You must know how important names are, being from the big city and all.” That must be it. There, a certain few names of the rich and powerful ruled everything. But here on the sea? His name nearly ruled it all.

“What? Oh, yeah, I mean, I’m sorry about that too. I’ll call you Cap if you want.” Alfred’s apologetic face quickly upturned with an almost amused smile, before he suddenly remembered something and it shot down again. “I meant I’m sorry for upsetting you last night, you know, at the bar? I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I really just wanted to understand you better. I didn’t know it was a sensitive subject for you and I didn’t mean to make you mad. Are you still upset?”

Of all the things Arthur thought the boy might say, it certainly wasn’t that. He gawked at him for a moment, unable to decide if he should be angry at him for bringing it up again or impressed with his honesty. Though really, what the hell did Alfred care about his feelings? He was a pirate! Not only that, he was one of the most feared captains in all four kingdoms. He wasn’t one to be coddled, but it made him realize, it had been quite a long time since he heard anyone ask him such a compassionate question.

“I...suppose not.” He settled finally, watching carefully as Alfred’s face shifted from worried to a large grin. It accentuated his nice face, really. He looked much better with a smile than that sour face from before. This ‘capital tit’, admittedly, had a nice, goofy smile to accompany his shining, blue eyes. It was like staring into the depths of the ocean itself. Arthur would know, he had done just that many times before, after all. The realization startled him a bit and he cursed himself for losing focus.

“So,” the grinning man beamed at him with a hopeful gaze. “Will you let me talk with you now that you aren’t mad? Just a little bit, so I can get to know you better.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to smile, though it wasn’t the optimistic, toothy grin Alfred had. No, his was much more sarcastic, and he smirked as if he had just been told a nasty joke.

“Idiot, are you really not understanding the situation you’re in right now?” He placed his rough, calloused hands on his hips as he stared at his hopeful prisoner.

“Huh?” Judging by Alfred’s response, he did not.

“Here you are, on my ship, in my cell, as my prisoner, and you want to talk as if we were just friends?” He said it as if it was obvious his request was insane, since for anyone else it would be! Anyone else in their right mind would be scared shitless being the infamous pirate’s captive. Maybe Alfred really was just plain stupid after all.

“Have you really not figured this out yet? I could kill you...I could torture you...I could make you my play thing then dump you into the sea when you start to bore me.” His face twisted sharply, his Cheshire grin roughening at the edges. “I thought about it, you know? It wouldn’t be hard, after all. I could make you do whatever I wanted and there would be nothing you could do to stop any of it.” It was a face of such sadistic pleasure that Alfred had never seen a human morph like that before. It sent a chill down his spine as his eyes unwillingly locked on it, unable to force them away.

Ah, there it finally was. The fear.

Alfred’s stance stiffened and his blue eyes watched the captain carefully, even when Arthur stepped closer. His gaze remained on the pale man before him, even as said man broke the distance between them, reaching through the bars and caressing his face. It stung a little, he could only guess there was a dark bruise left from when he had been punched the night before. The touch was so gentle though, Alfred swore it had to be someone else’s hand. But it wasn’t, it was Arthur’s, and he smelt like sea salt.

Alfred swallowed the lump forming in his throat, “But...you haven’t.” He stated simply.

The hand on his cheek paused suddenly.

“What?” Came the surprised reply. Even if it was hidden deep under a low, dark mumble, Alfred could hear the confusion.

Alfred grew bolder and was quick to reply. “You haven’t hurt me yet, but you’ve had more than enough chances to.” The prince reiterated. Without thinking, he reached up and grabbed onto Arthur’s cold hand that still lay dormant on his cheek, gripping it gently in his own warm one. “From the stories I’ve always heard about you, you’re ruthless. You’re violent and you won’t hesitate to kill anyone who gets in your way. But I can tell that’s not all you are, I know it’s not. You saved my life, cage or not, I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. You even held a knife to my throat for gods sake, Arthur, but I’m still here. Anyone else would call you a monster for it but I don’t see you that way. I don’t think you’re as heartless as people say you are.”

It was Arthur’s turn to go wide-eyed. His emerald eyes sparkled with so many emotions that Alfred could hardly keep up with them all. There was confusion, first and foremost. Denial, skepticism, doubt, and if he was right, a hint of fear.

The Brit jerked his hand out of the prisoner’s soft grasp, somewhere between fuming and disbelief. “Do not doubt me, I will make your life hell on earth.” He spit. And with that, the captain stormed away and out of The Hole.

“Cap? Hold on, wait! Arthur!”

But his cries were ignored, heard only by unsympathetic walls and the pacing sea.

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[callmeblake]

@gerardway

25th Mar 2013 from TwitLonger

A Vigil, On Birds and Glass. I woke up this morning still dreaming, or not fully aware of myself just yet. The sun poked through the windows, touching my face, and then a deep sadness overcame me, immediately, bringing me to life and realization- My Chemical Romance had ended. I walked downstairs to do the only thing I could think of to regain composure- I made coffee. As the drip began, in that kind of silence that only happens in the morning, and being the only one awake, I stepped outside my home, leaving the door open behind me. I looked around and began to breathe. Things looked to be about the same- a beautiful day. As I turned to step back into the house I heard sound from within, a chirp and a rustle. And I noticed a small brown bird had flown into the library. Naturally, I panicked. I knew I had to see the bird to safety and I knew I had to retain the order of things in our home, and he very well couldn’t take up residency with us. I chased him (still assuming he was a he) into my office, where I have these very large windows. Just then, and luckily, I heard Lindsey’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and naturally being composed as she is, she grabbed a blanket and stepped into the office. He was impossible to catch, and I began to open the windows, via Lindsey’s direction, only to find out they were screened. The bird began to fly into the glass, over and over and in all different directions. Smack. Smack. Smack! I heard another set of footsteps, Bandit’s, running down the stairs in anticipation of the new day. Her entrance into the situation caused just the right amount of chaos (she was very excited to meet the bird) and we found ourselves chasing the bird into the living room. Knowing that this where it could potentially get sticky, being the high ceilings and the beams to perch on, I opened the front door as Lindsey did her best to encourage our new friend out the door. After some coaxing, flying, chirping, a wrong turn back into the library and a short goodbye to Bandit, he simply hopped out the front door- taking off on the fifth leap. We cheered. I was no longer sad. I didn’t realize it, but I stopped being sad the minute that bird had come into my life, because there was something that needed doing, a small vessel to aid and an order to keep. I closed the door. I decided to write the letter I always knew I would. It is often my nature to be abstract, hidden in plain sight, or nowhere at all. I have always felt that the art I have made (alone or with friends) contains all of my intent when executed properly, and thus, no explanation required. It is simply not in my nature to excuse, explain, or justify any action I have taken as a result of thinking it through with a clear head, and in my truth. I had always felt this situation involving the end of this band would be different, in the eventuality it happened. I would be cryptic in its existence, and open upon its death. The clearest actions come from truth, not obligation. And the truth of the matter is that I love every one of you. So, if this finds you well, and sheds some light on anything, or my personal account and feelings on the matter, then it is out of this love, mutual and shared, not duty. Love. This was always my intent. My Chemical Romance: 2001-2013 We were spectacular. Every show I knew this, every show I felt it with or without external confirmation. There were some clunkers, sometimes our secondhand gear broke, sometimes I had no voice- we were still great. It is this belief that made us who we were, but also many other things, all of them vital- And all of the things that made us great were the very things that were going to end us- Fiction. Friction. Creation. Destruction. Opposition. Aggression. Ambition. Heart. Hate. Courage. Spite. Beauty. Desperation. LOVE. Fear. Glamour. Weakness. Hope. Fatalism. That last one is very important. My Chemical Romance had, built within its core, a fail-safe. A doomsday device, should certain events occur or cease occurring, would detonate. I shared knowledge of this “flaw” within weeks of its inception. Personally, I embraced it because, again, it made us perfect. A perfect machine, beautiful, yet self aware of it’s system. Under directive to terminate before it becomes compromised. To protect the idea- at all costs. This probably sounds like something ripped from the pages of a four-color comic book, and that’s the point. No compromise. No surrender. No fucking shit. To me that’s rock and roll. And I believe in rock and roll. I wasn’t shy about who I said this to, not the press, or a fan, or a relative. It’s in the lyrics, it’s in the banter. I often watched the journalists snicker at mention of it, assuming I was being sensational or melodramatic (in their defense I was most likely dressed as an apocalyptic marching-band leader with a tear-away hospital gown and a face covered in expressionist paint, so fair enough). I’m still not sure if the mechanism worked correctly, because it wasn’t a bang but a much slower process. But still the same result, and still for the same reason- When it’s time, we stop. It is important to understand that for us, the opinion on whether or not it is in fact time does not transmit from the audience. Again, this is to protect the idea for the benefit of the audience. Many a band have waited for external confirmation that it is time to hang it up, via ticket sales, chart positioning, boos and bottles of urine- input that holds no sway for us, and often too late when it comes anyway. You should know it in your being, if you listen to the truth inside you. And voice inside became louder than the music. <At this point, I take a break to receive a visit from old friends, all of which were instrumental in some way to the beginnings of the band. We talk about the old days, and we talk about music, we talk about new things. We laugh and drink diet soda. We say goodbyes, I go to bed, to resume my letter in the morning, which is-> Now- There are many reasons My Chemical Romance ended. The triggerman is unimportant, as was always the messengers- but the message, again as always, is the important thing. But to reiterate, this is my account, my reasons and my feelings. And I can assure you there was no divorce, argument, failure, accident, villain, or knife in the back that caused this, again this was no one’s fault, and it had been quietly in the works, whether we knew it or not, long before any sensationalism, scandal, or rumor. There wasn’t even a blaze of glory in a hail of bullets… I am backstage in Asbury Park, New Jersey. It is Saturday, May 19th, 2012 and I am pacing behind a massive black curtain that leads to the stage. I feel the breeze from the ocean find its way around me and I look down at my arms, which are covered in fresh gauze due to a losing battle with a heat rash, which had been a mysterious problem in recent months. I am normally not nervous before a show but I am certainly filled with angry butterflies most of the time. This is different- a strange anxiety jetting through me that I can only imagine is the sixth sense one feels before their last moments alive. My pupils have zeroed-out and I have ceased blinking. My body temperature is icy. We get the cue to hit the stage. The show is… good. Not great, not bad, just good. The first thing I notice take me by surprise is not the enormous amount of people in front of us but off to my left- the shore and the vastness of the ocean. Much more blue than I remembered as a boy. The sky is just as vibrant. I perform, semi-automatically, and something is wrong. I am acting. I never act on stage, even when it appears that I am, even when I’m hamming it up or delivering a soliloquy. Suddenly, I have become highly self-aware, almost as if waking from a dream. I began to move faster, more frantic, reckless- trying to shake it off- but all it began to create was silence. The amps, the cheers, all began to fade. All that what left was the voice inside, and I could hear it clearly. It didn’t have to yell- it whispered, and said to me briefly, plainly, and kindly- what it had to say. What it said is between me and the voice. I ignored it, and the following months were full of suffering for me- I hollowed out, stopped listening to music, never picked up a pencil, started slipping into old habits. All of the vibrancy I used to see became de-saturated. Lost. I used to see art or magic in everything, especially the mundane- the ability was buried under wreckage. Slowly, once I had done enough damage to myself, I began to climb out of the hole. Clean. When I made it out, the only thing left inside was the voice, and for the second time in my life, I no longer ignored it- because it was my own. There are many roles for all of us to play in this ending. We can be well-wishers, ill-wishers, sympathizers, vilifiers, comedians, rain clouds, victims- That last one, again, is important. I have never thought myself a victim, nor my comrades, nor the fans- especially not the fans. For us to adopt that role right now would legitimize everything the tabloids have tried to name us. More importantly, it completely misses the point of the band. And then what have we learned? With honor, integrity, closure, and on no one’s terms but our own- the door closes. And another opens- This morning I awoke early. I quickly brushed my teeth, threw on some baggy jeans, and hopped in my car. I gently sped down the 405 through the morning fog to a random parking lot in Palo Verde, where I was to meet a nice gentleman named Norm. He was older, and a self-proclaimed “hippie” but he also had the energy of Sixteen year old in a garage-rock band. The purpose of the meeting was the delivery of an amplifier into my possession. I had recently purchased the amp from him and we both agreed that shipping would jostle the tubes- so he was kind enough to meet me in the middle. A Fender Princeton Amp from 1965, non reverb. A beautiful little device. He showed me the finer points, the speaker, the non-grounded plug, the original label and the chalk mark of the man or woman who built it- “This amp talks.” he said. I smiled. We got coffee, talked about gold-foil pickups and life. We sat in the car and played each other music we had made. We parted ways, promising to stay in touch, I drove home. When I wanted to start My Chemical Romance, I began by sitting in my parent’s basement, picking up an instrument I had long abandoned for the brush- a guitar. It was a 90’s Fender Mexican Stratocaster, Lake Placid Blue, but in my youth I had decided it was too clean and pretty so I beat it up, exposing some of the red paint underneath the blue- the color it was meant to be. Adding a piece of duct tape on the pick guard, it felt acceptable. I plugged this into a baby Crate Amp with built in distortion and began the first chords of Skylines and Turnstiles. I still have that guitar, and it’s sitting next to The Princeton. He has a voice, and I would like to hear what it has to say. In closing, I want to thank every single fan. I have learned from you, maybe more than you think you’ve learned from me. My only regret is that I am awful with names and bad with goodbyes. But I never forget a face, or a feeling- and that is what I have left from all of you. I feel Love. I feel love for you, for our crew, our team, and for every single human being I have shared the band and stage with- Ray. Mikey. Frank. Matt. Bob. James. Todd. Cortez. Tucker. Pete. Michael. Jarrod. Since I am bad with goodbyes. I refuse to let this be one. But I will leave you with one last thing- My Chemical Romance is done. But it can never die. It is alive in me, in the guys, and it is alive inside all of you. I always knew that, and I think you did too. Because it is not a band- it is an idea. Love, Gerard

[joshlerisvvreal-blog]

I’m sorry for bringing this back into your life

A note from Gerard Way about My Chemical Romance's breakup:

A Vigil, On Birds and Glass. I woke up this morning still dreaming, or not fully aware of myself just yet. The sun poked through the windows, touching my face, and then a deep sadness overcame me, immediately, bringing me to life and realization- My Chemical Romance had ended. I walked downstairs to do the only thing I could think of to regain composure- I made coffee. As the drip began, in that kind of silence that only happens in the morning, and being the only one awake, I stepped outside my home, leaving the door open behind me. I looked around and began to breathe. Things looked to be about the same- a beautiful day. As I turned to step back into the house I heard sound from within, a chirp and a rustle. And I noticed a small brown bird had flown into the library. Naturally, I panicked. I knew I had to see the bird to safety and I knew I had to retain the order of things in our home, and he very well couldn’t take up residency with us. I chased him (still assuming he was a he) into my office, where I have these very large windows. Just then, and luckily, I heard Lindsey’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and naturally being composed as she is, she grabbed a blanket and stepped into the office. He was impossible to catch, and I began to open the windows, via Lindsey’s direction, only to find out they were screened. The bird began to fly into the glass, over and over and in all different directions. Smack. Smack. Smack! I heard another set of footsteps, Bandit’s, running down the stairs in anticipation of the new day. Her entrance into the situation caused just the right amount of chaos (she was very excited to meet the bird) and we found ourselves chasing the bird into the living room. Knowing that this where it could potentially get sticky, being the high ceilings and the beams to perch on, I opened the front door as Lindsey did her best to encourage our new friend out the door. After some coaxing, flying, chirping, a wrong turn back into the library and a short goodbye to Bandit, he simply hopped out the front door- taking off on the fifth leap. We cheered. I was no longer sad. I didn’t realize it, but I stopped being sad the minute that bird had come into my life, because there was something that needed doing, a small vessel to aid and an order to keep. I closed the door. I decided to write the letter I always knew I would.

It is often my nature to be abstract, hidden in plain sight, or nowhere at all. I have always felt that the art I have made (alone or with friends) contains all of my intent when executed properly, and thus, no explanation required. It is simply not in my nature to excuse, explain, or justify any action I have taken as a result of thinking it through with a clear head, and in my truth. I had always felt this situation involving the end of this band would be different, in the eventuality it happened. I would be cryptic in its existence, and open upon its death.

The clearest actions come from truth, not obligation. And the truth of the matter is that I love every one of you. So, if this finds you well, and sheds some light on anything, or my personal account and feelings on the matter, then it is out of this love, mutual and shared, not duty. Love. This was always my intent.

My Chemical Romance: 2001-2013

We were spectacular. Every show I knew this, every show I felt it with or without external confirmation. There were some clunkers, sometimes our secondhand gear broke, sometimes I had no voice- we were still great. It is this belief that made us who we were, but also many other things, all of them vital- And all of the things that made us great were the very things that were going to end us-

Fiction. Friction. Creation. Destruction. Opposition. Aggression. Ambition. Heart. Hate. Courage. Spite. Beauty. Desperation. LOVE. Fear. Glamour. Weakness. Hope.

Fatalism.

That last one is very important. My Chemical Romance had, built within its core, a fail-safe. A doomsday device, should certain events occur or cease occurring, would detonate. I shared knowledge of this “flaw” within weeks of its inception. Personally, I embraced it because, again, it made us perfect. A perfect machine, beautiful, yet self aware of it’s system. Under directive to terminate before it becomes compromised. To protect the idea- at all costs. This probably sounds like something ripped from the pages of a four-color comic book, and that’s the point. No compromise. No surrender. No fucking shit.

To me that’s rock and roll. And I believe in rock and roll.

I wasn’t shy about who I said this to, not the press, or a fan, or a relative. It’s in the lyrics, it’s in the banter. I often watched the journalists snicker at mention of it, assuming I was being sensational or melodramatic (in their defense I was most likely dressed as an apocalyptic marching-band leader with a tear-away hospital gown and a face covered in expressionist paint, so fair enough). I’m still not sure if the mechanism worked correctly, because it wasn’t a bang but a much slower process. But still the same result, and still for the same reason-

When it’s time, we stop.

It is important to understand that for us, the opinion on whether or not it is in fact time does not transmit from the audience. Again, this is to protect the idea for the benefit of the audience. Many a band have waited for external confirmation that it is time to hang it up, via ticket sales, chart positioning, boos and bottles of urine- input that holds no sway for us, and often too late when it comes anyway.

You should know it in your being, if you listen to the truth inside you. And voice inside became louder than the music.

<At this point, I take a break to receive a visit from old friends, all of which were instrumental in some way to the beginnings of the band. We talk about the old days, and we talk about music, we talk about new things. We laugh and drink diet soda. We say goodbyes, I go to bed, to resume my letter in the morning, which is->

Now- There are many reasons My Chemical Romance ended. The triggerman is unimportant, as was always the messengers- but the message, again as always, is the important thing. But to reiterate, this is my account, my reasons and my feelings. And I can assure you there was no divorce, argument, failure, accident, villain, or knife in the back that caused this, again this was no one’s fault, and it had been quietly in the works, whether we knew it or not, long before any sensationalism, scandal, or rumor.

There wasn’t even a blaze of glory in a hail of bullets…

I am backstage in Asbury Park, New Jersey. It is Saturday, May 19th, 2012 and I am pacing behind a massive black curtain that leads to the stage. I feel the breeze from the ocean find its way around me and I look down at my arms, which are covered in fresh gauze due to a losing battle with a heat rash, which had been a mysterious problem in recent months. I am normally not nervous before a show but I am certainly filled with angry butterflies most of the time. This is different- a strange anxiety jetting through me that I can only imagine is the sixth sense one feels before their last moments alive. My pupils have zeroed-out and I have ceased blinking. My body temperature is icy. We get the cue to hit the stage.

The show is… good. Not great, not bad, just good. The first thing I notice take me by surprise is not the enormous amount of people in front of us but off to my left- the shore and the vastness of the ocean. Much more blue than I remembered as a boy. The sky is just as vibrant. I perform, semi-automatically, and something is wrong. I am acting. I never act on stage, even when it appears that I am, even when I’m hamming it up or delivering a soliloquy. Suddenly, I have become highly self-aware, almost as if waking from a dream. I began to move faster, more frantic, reckless- trying to shake it off- but all it began to create was silence. The amps, the cheers, all began to fade.

All that what left was the voice inside, and I could hear it clearly. It didn’t have to yell- it whispered, and said to me briefly, plainly, and kindly- what it had to say.

What it said is between me and the voice.

I ignored it, and the following months were full of suffering for me- I hollowed out, stopped listening to music, never picked up a pencil, started slipping into old habits. All of the vibrancy I used to see became de-saturated. Lost. I used to see art or magic in everything, especially the mundane- the ability was buried under wreckage.

Slowly, once I had done enough damage to myself, I began to climb out of the hole. Clean. When I made it out, the only thing left inside was the voice, and for the second time in my life, I no longer ignored it- because it was my own.

There are many roles for all of us to play in this ending. We can be well-wishers, ill-wishers, sympathizers, vilifiers, comedians, rain clouds, victims-

That last one, again, is important. I have never thought myself a victim, nor my comrades, nor the fans- especially not the fans. For us to adopt that role right now would legitimize everything the tabloids have tried to name us. More importantly, it completely misses the point of the band. And then what have we learned?

With honor, integrity, closure, and on no one’s terms but our own- the door closes.

And another opens-

This morning I awoke early. I quickly brushed my teeth, threw on some baggy jeans, and hopped in my car. I gently sped down the 405 through the morning fog to a random parking lot in Palo Verde, where I was to meet a nice gentleman named Norm. He was older, and a self-proclaimed “hippie” but he also had the energy of Sixteen year old in a garage-rock band. The purpose of the meeting was the delivery of an amplifier into my possession. I had recently purchased the amp from him and we both agreed that shipping would jostle the tubes- so he was kind enough to meet me in the middle. A Fender Princeton Amp from 1965, non reverb. A beautiful little device.

He showed me the finer points, the speaker, the non-grounded plug, the original label and the chalk mark of the man or woman who built it-

“This amp talks.” he said. I smiled. We got coffee, talked about gold-foil pickups and life. We sat in the car and played each other music we had made. We parted ways, promising to stay in touch, I drove home.

When I wanted to start My Chemical Romance, I began by sitting in my parent’s basement, picking up an instrument I had long abandoned for the brush- a guitar. It was a 90’s Fender Mexican Stratocaster, Lake Placid Blue, but in my youth I had decided it was too clean and pretty so I beat it up, exposing some of the red paint underneath the blue- the color it was meant to be. Adding a piece of duct tape on the pick guard, it felt acceptable. I plugged this into a baby Crate Amp with built in distortion and began the first chords of Skylines and Turnstiles.

I still have that guitar, and it’s sitting next to The Princeton. He has a voice, and I would like to hear what it has to say.

In closing, I want to thank every single fan. I have learned from you, maybe more than you think you’ve learned from me. My only regret is that I am awful with names and bad with goodbyes. But I never forget a face, or a feeling- and that is what I have left from all of you. I feel Love.

I feel love for you, for our crew, our team, and for every single human being I have shared the band and stage with-

Ray. Mikey. Frank. Matt. Bob. James. Todd. Cortez. Tucker. Pete. Michael. Jarrod.

Since I am bad with goodbyes. I refuse to let this be one. But I will leave you with one last thing-

My Chemical Romance is done. But it can never die. It is alive in me, in the guys, and it is alive inside all of you. I always knew that, and I think you did too.

Because it is not a band- it is an idea.

Love, Gerard