I can't believe that I've been misspelling Layne Staley's name for so long. I'm such an idiot. It wasn't until I read his biography that I realized the truth. I'm very dissappointed in the biography. Not to say that it's TERRIBLE, but it reads more like a report in a school newspaper than a biography. It doesn't seem to get down to the nitty gritty of Layne's life. There were a lot of things I never knew about Layne. As a matter of fact I only knew three things about him before reading this, one he was an amazing singer and songwriter, two he was addicted to heroin, three he was a hermit. Now that some of the details are filled in, it makes me feel a lot more sadness for him. I hope he found peace. I hope everyone finds peace. For those of you reading this, try to find peace. Move the fridge and look under there for it if you have to-I know it's gross but it's worth it. Is anyone happy? Is anyone living a life where they don't have a thousand problems and a million worries and a trillion things bringing them down? Is there anyone who looks at their life and says, "I'm livin a good life, I don't want anything to change"? I hope so. Maybe if they can do it I can do it.
My head is a house. The house has many rooms. I don't mind letting people into my head/house, I love the company. I open the doors and show them around, here is the dining room, here's the parlor, here's the kitchen, here's the game room. Feel free to help yourself to a mike's hard or play a game of pool. Not even my bedroom is offlimits. If you need a place to crash, or if you need to take a nap, or if you and your girlfriend/boyfriend are just too horny to wait til you get home, well....mi casa es su casa. There's only one room that's off limits. That room is my own private sanctuary. You may have seen every other room in my house, but if you haven't been in there, then you don't really know me. All the stuff about me that's real, all the deep down things about me is there. I rarely let people in. I keep the door locked at all times and only allow my friends limited access. If my head is a house, then my soul is the owner, and this is his favorite room. This is where he spends the most time. It used to be furnished with all kinds of things. A nice desk, a good stereo, a pretty decent computer. The rug was thick and clean and the couches were comfortable. Now that room is empty. The last person I let in, well..they decided to do some redecorating. Now my nice clean, forest green rugs is black with soot and dirt and dust. My couches are torn and useless. The stereo has been shorted out and the speakers have been blown. I trusted that person. I took a leap and let them into my special room and now it's destroyed. She took some of my stuff and destroyed the rest. I may seem the same, after all, she left the rest of the house alone, but I'm not. All the best parts of me are gone. I know that one day I'll be able to drag out the couches and leave them on the curb. I'll be able to replace the desk and the stereo. Eventually I'll rebuild the CD collection that I kept in there (lot's Alice In Chains, Led Zeppelin, and the Doors...NO Slipknot) but it will never be the same. No matter how many times I clean the carpet, it will always bear the stains of my scars. I can cover up the scorch marks on the wall with a new bookcase but they'll always be there. And I don't want any of that. I wanted a nice room that wasn't too fancy or extravagent but was a place where people could go and say "Wow this is a good place". I wanted a place that I could be proud of. I used to be proud of that room. Now it's sub par. I don't want sub par. I don't want my only special place to have a slightly stained carpet and a few burn marks on the walls. But it's starting already. I've already thrown out the worst of the remains. Soon the broken furniture will go. Then the new stuff will come in. My soul sits up at night, scared that another maniac will break in and destroy everything that he's worked so hard to attain again, but one day he'll feel secure enough to sleep. The person who did this, they knock at my door everyday. Sometimes I let them in. They want to go back in my little room. They want to know why they're not allowed in now. They always were before. She'll never walk past that door again. There are still people who I let in, although I watch them a little more closely now. At the first sign of trouble, they get the boot and the door gets locked. I don't now if I'll ever let anyone new in again. I don't know what will be left if I do....
If you're allowed in there, be respectful. Flick your ashes in the ashtray, don't leave your garbage lying around, and don't destroy my stuff. For those of you who have been in and have left me a little gift, maybe a Jim Morrison poster or a Stephen King book, thank you. For those of you who want in, well, just wait. Maybe one day I'll fling open my doors wide, just like Willy Wonka and let all those lucky children who have golden tickets inside to see the wonders that I've created. More likely, though, it will remain closed forever. If it does, try not to think badly of me. Shutting everyone out is one of the few things I know how to do anymore.
My head is a house. The house has many rooms. I don't mind letting people into my head/house, I love the company. I open the doors and show them around, here is the dining room, here's the parlor, here's the kitchen, here's the game room. Feel free to help yourself to a mike's hard or play a game of pool. Not even my bedroom is offlimits. If you need a place to crash, or if you need to take a nap, or if you and your girlfriend/boyfriend are just too horny to wait til you get home, well....mi casa es su casa. There's only one room that's off limits. That room is my own private sanctuary. You may have seen every other room in my house, but if you haven't been in there, then you don't really know me. All the stuff about me that's real, all the deep down things about me is there. I rarely let people in. I keep the door locked at all times and only allow my friends limited access. If my head is a house, then my soul is the owner, and this is his favorite room. This is where he spends the most time. It used to be furnished with all kinds of things. A nice desk, a good stereo, a pretty decent computer. The rug was thick and clean and the couches were comfortable. Now that room is empty. The last person I let in, well..they decided to do some redecorating. Now my nice clean, forest green rugs is black with soot and dirt and dust. My couches are torn and useless. The stereo has been shorted out and the speakers have been blown. I trusted that person. I took a leap and let them into my special room and now it's destroyed. She took some of my stuff and destroyed the rest. I may seem the same, after all, she left the rest of the house alone, but I'm not. All the best parts of me are gone. I know that one day I'll be able to drag out the couches and leave them on the curb. I'll be able to replace the desk and the stereo. Eventually I'll rebuild the CD collection that I kept in there (lot's Alice In Chains, Led Zeppelin, and the Doors...NO Slipknot) but it will never be the same. No matter how many times I clean the carpet, it will always bear the stains of my scars. I can cover up the scorch marks on the wall with a new bookcase but they'll always be there. And I don't want any of that. I wanted a nice room that wasn't too fancy or extravagent but was a place where people could go and say "Wow this is a good place". I wanted a place that I could be proud of. I used to be proud of that room. Now it's sub par. I don't want sub par. I don't want my only special place to have a slightly stained carpet and a few burn marks on the walls. But it's starting already. I've already thrown out the worst of the remains. Soon the broken furniture will go. Then the new stuff will come in. My soul sits up at night, scared that another maniac will break in and destroy everything that he's worked so hard to attain again, but one day he'll feel secure enough to sleep. The person who did this, they knock at my door everyday. Sometimes I let them in. They want to go back in my little room. They want to know why they're not allowed in now. They always were before. She'll never walk past that door again. There are still people who I let in, although I watch them a little more closely now. At the first sign of trouble, they get the boot and the door gets locked. I don't now if I'll ever let anyone new in again. I don't know what will be left if I do....
If you're allowed in there, be respectful. Flick your ashes in the ashtray, don't leave your garbage lying around, and don't destroy my stuff. For those of you who have been in and have left me a little gift, maybe a Jim Morrison poster or a Stephen King book, thank you. For those of you who want in, well, just wait. Maybe one day I'll fling open my doors wide, just like Willy Wonka and let all those lucky children who have golden tickets inside to see the wonders that I've created. More likely, though, it will remain closed forever. If it does, try not to think badly of me. Shutting everyone out is one of the few things I know how to do anymore.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
one thing that helps me get past bad stuff sometimes is this:
i must be getting something out of this--or i wouldn't be hanging onto it still.
when i think about it, i am staying a "victim" to gain sympathy, either from others, or from myself, or my ex.
but, as long as i continue playing the victim role, i will never stand on my own and get past what happened. i have felt a little hint of what it feels like to get past it--a fleeting feeling that i hope to have again--and i can honestly tell you, that it feels a LOT better than this self-pity victim thing.
jeez, i am getting carried away with my lecturing......sorry!