The trouble with beauty is that it can be just as tragic. In fact, its tragicness can oftentimes be exactly what makes something beautiful. Oh, it's shit game, sure, but that's just the way it goes.
We sense that the same thing can be true for the faithless in Gwilym Gold's songs, where those who are reduced to their knees, opening their faithless arms for something to fill them are less tragic because of their lack of faith, or what could pass as misguided faith. It's just that they can't help but feel what gets to them and they can rarely, if ever, choose what gets to them. They're victims of circumstance and they're left holding the bag, filled with beautifully tragic emotions and all their residue. They are slumped there on the floor, believing in what they have, while thinking that it's certainly not enough to mean anything to anyone else.
Within the walls of these striking sketches of people, you wonder to yourself how many of them consider their souls to be damaged almost beyond repair and hence, they'll take what they can get. They'll just force themselves to be happy with the crooked teeth and the lovely imperfections. They'll take the swept up crumbs and crumbles, milling a smile from their drooping lips and facial muscles.
Gold sings, "If you can save yourself/Then save yourself." It's a line that offers an out. It's said with a turn of the face, a half-wave of the hand, as if suggesting, "Go on. Git. We both know your heart's not in this. You have every reason to want to find the closest exit." The pretty points are obscured by the soured scuff marks. Beauty is never in the eye of the beholden. It's just a difference of one letter, but it might as well be a different language.