It’s 8am. This would have been great to write a couple hours ago. Don’t worry, you’ll get it in a minute.
So, today I guess I’m treating you to more or less a direct journal entry (fuck writing in two places – I feel like just laying out what I have to say). It won’t hold a candle to the scrawls that piece together The Heroin Diaries: A Year in the Life of a Shattered Rockstar, but I suppose we can call this a meager tribute. Don’t start rolling your eyes just yet, I’m writing in second wind (my favourite wind to do anything in, yuk yuk yuk).
I got home around 4am from working the bar job I started this weekend (remember, I mentioned that once or twice before?). I haven’t been to sleep, and I’m exhausted, and I have just sat and watched a full documentary about the life of Nikki Sixx (Motley Crue/Sixx: AM bassist, songwriter, MANY OTHER FUNCTIONS). I knew everything already. I’ve read The Heroin Diaries. I’ve watched countless interviews. I’ve breathed his lyrics since I first bought Shout at the Devil when I was 14 – and I’ve been lost ever since.
So why did I stay up, and purposefully exhaust myself further for no obvious reason? You could say I couldn’t help myself. You could say that whatever the reasoning, it’s the same for why I spent several days watching every interview with Stephen King I could find when I’d had enough of everything and quit my job. Thinking realistically (restrictively, pal), is the most distressing and tiring thing I do right now. It makes me want to crawl under the bed and stay there. It makes me physically sick. It literally takes my breath away, and only experience and understanding stops me believing I’m going to die.
In short, this looks like regression to a time when all of my dreams were still alive, I had a bone to pick with every fucker with a vertebrae, and when I wanted nothing more than to be Nikki Sixx.
Laying cards on the table, a part of me still wants it all. The debauchery, the heartache, the revolutionary musical mind, the girls, and the total lack of control. A greater part of me knows that no one else needs to go through what he did. No one who has read any of his books, or knows how he lives for so much more now, would throw their life into a tailspin that only one man could possibly survive. I only wish that I had opened my eyes to the world younger; discovered positive influences sooner. I would be in a very different place now. Maybe I should write about that? What if you could go back and change your life… HA! Okay, I’ll definitely sleep on that (there’s a special place for ideas like that).
I do think it’s sad to not have recognised (or proven – perhaps more accurate) a real defining strength or talent by 22. I cringe each time I’m told “You’re still so young“, because no matter how bad things got, or how low I felt, throughout my school years I always believed I would do something special to stand out, and accomplish something to be proud of that makes everything running up to it, and everything that comes after, so worthwhile. I believed I would have it made early in my life, and I would be free to build everything as far as I would want to take it. I think a part of me died along the way, because now it’s not a belief, but a hope: a flame, but no inferno.
Let’s leave the self-deprecation for another time though (hey, there’s one thing exempt from ‘no time like the present’). I wonder, having typed this with no fore-planning (it is, after all, a journal entry) how this will be perceived.
I know (even if you don’t) that this isn’t a cry for help, or a bid for attention (more than usual anyway), so I’m sticking something raw out there, for anyone to see for no other reason than for… well…. I wanted to write, and talking to yourself gets boring after awhile. My journal word count, which started November 13th, 2015, is currently sat at 13,427 words – I have a lot to empty out of the think tank. Typing thoughts into words, constructing theories and plans, organising the madness, feeding ideas – it’s all becoming an addiction. Knowing the life of and hearing every word spoken by my heroes is also kind of an addiction. I don’t know what the cure is, or if I need one. I would love a second opinion that doesn’t come from Hyde (does that mean Jekyll’s writing here?), but that’s all up to you.
I best leave it here. I have ‘living’ to do.
From I; to Me; shared with you.
Image Sources: Doodles from scraps of accumulated paper, Google Images (Nikki Sixx)
For more, follow me @ajexmi (Nobody Musings)
Link: Nikki Sixx: Live Through This – Watch It