The lyrics go:

Come down off your throne and leave your body alone
Somebody must change
You are the reason I’ve been waiting all these years
Somebody holds the key

Well, I’m near the end and I just ain’t got the time
And I’m wasted and I can’t find my way home
I can’t find my way home

Now, this song is about a junkie who is too wasted to find their way home, both literally and metaphorically, but I find myself oddly in a similar situation — and I asked for it.

One day, you’re home. You’re wearing sweat pants and a tank top — the type of outfit your wife tolerates at home but would shoot you if you dared step outside your four walls — and comfy, maybe doing some writing or working on a project. Your cat is sharpening his claws on your new rug. The sink downstairs is piled high with pots and dishes from last night’s dinner. After a gulp of your drink, you let out a belch (because your wife isn’t home).

Then, suddenly, they say yes, and it’s no longer your home. It’s theirs. You will still live here for another month or two, but you are now living in someone else’s home. You have to be extra careful, you have an obligation to keep it cleaner, and for God’s sake don’t ding or dent the walls. It’s theirs.

Now, it’s not just that you’re obligated to treat the place with kid gloves because they’re buying it. You genuinely want them to enjoy their new home, and be as enthralled with it as you once were. You want them to walk in with starry eyes and just see so many possibilities about their new life. And you too will soon be indulging in those same emotions…somewhere else.

One moment, I’m sitting in my home office, surrounded by all my peculiar decorations and belongings, then an e-mail arrives from our agent and I’m sitting in some kid’s bedroom. With all my stuff.

And so we begin to pack.

 

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Category

Writing, (noun & verb)