A Look To The Left Of Love

God, these mornings are f*****g with my system. Quoted myself for the shower/glass + nails passage. I felt sort of used. I am/was rather into politics, hence the title (Left Wing) and the Agnew reference.

A Look To The Left Of Love
      
          I'm not sure what the direct quote was, but something about Spiro Agnew dismissing the media with some alliteration around the letter 'N' brought my mind to halt on the naming of this piece. Unlike Agnew and his dastardly political underhandedness (and his gangly apperance), this article has significant and ethical meaning. Or at least, I think does... I'm tired, yet can't sleep. Something is irking at my mind. The good sounds of the Stones' Exile On Main Street didn't bring me any joy as it usual does on these early morning escapades. No, today it was just what it is. Noise. Coordinated noise, yes, but today it wasn't what I wanted to be hearing. No, this morning I wanted to be hearing the soft sound of breathing, coming from someone who I could love. Then, once I had her with me, I would welcome the sounds of Shine A Light back into my world. But I knew I couldn't have her. Not for a long while at least.
      
           Still, this wasn't what irked me. I often wanted someone to hold, someone to love, someone to connect with. What bothered me was something I had heard earlier today. Or yesterday, I suppose. It was from an ex-girlfriend. Sadly, they seemed to be piling up in an numerous extent. This bothers me a lot, but not as much as what she said. Like with Agnew, I don't remember exactly what she said, but she confessed to still loving me, not that I didn't see that coming, I had figured she had since, well, since we broke up. And why not? But the conversation took a strange twist, leading itself on some demented trail that I wasn't too fond of, but what the hell? I figured I'd humour her, let her vent, perhaps it would make her happier. In the end, I'm unsure if it made her feel better. I know it sure as hell made me feel worse. I knew I was jerk, but this just added more to the list of evidence assuring me I was. I can't blame her though, it wasn't her fault. It was mine, 100%, down to the very last drop from the bottle. If you know me (if so, God help you), you know that I tend to take responsibility for everything. Not that I want to, but just that it is, usually, my fault. Another thing you may notice, and this will sound egotistical, there's no other way to get the point across unless I am to sound like a degenerate shyster who is so full of himself that he is prone to burst into a million pieces at any second, is that, I think, my purpose on this Earth is to make others happier. Hell, I realize I sound like an arrogant feltcher saying that, but, believe me now, I hate it. I didn't ask for it, and, I suppose, I could back out but it seems the only thing I can do is make others happy, but never seem to quench my own thirst from my own formidable punchbowl. Cazart! I knew I would trail off, it is rather late, but I didn't think anyone could trail so far off the beaten path than that. Where was I? Right-o, the words of the ex.
      
           As aforementioned, I don't remember the quote, or what brought us to that dark, sickly part of town in our conversation, so in order to bring it to the Front, I'm just going to cut the crap, scrape the grisle and say it, down and dirty.
      
           "Y'know, sometimes I just lay up all night, thinking about you, and what you're thinking, and just wondering if you think of me, and all the times we had, all that stuff."
      
           That's probably very off but I am in no mood, shape or form to go back over millions of notes and logs to find the blasted quote and type it out word-for-word. That quotation captures the grit and meaning perfectly, so why change it? And, now, this is keeping me awake. Not the girl, but the fact that I broke her heart. It sickens me knowing how much of a ruthless beast I am, but I have to learn to cope with myself. Oh Lord, I am guilty of sin, of bringing mental anguish to others, and for this, I ask you to please bludgeon me down. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. I have done this twice, at least. Broken the hearts of two very innocent women, for reason that, in reminiscence, seems inane and defiling. I wish I could make things better because I know what it feels like to stay awake at night and wonder, "Do they still love me? Do they still care?" I know this experience from firsthand, and I endured it for an astonishing 7 months. It is not a pretty sight, and I was drawn to things that I would rather avoid talking about, but the feeling is still very clear and prominent in my bones. It's a terrible feeling, possibly one of the worst to have to suffer thru, and I should literally be stoned to death for the intensity of my "crimes", which are just now setting their affect on me.
      
          "She saw a monster, some sort of fiend, lifeless and horrid. Or so she thought. Others argued against her own claims, saying she was a stunning girl, but she could see into her own eyes. She knew all she had done and it sickened her to become what she thought she was: an empty shell of herself. And thus began the crying. Flick the lights off. Dark showers are the best. It doesn't allow you to see the shame as it's washed off of you. She sobbed and sobbed. Crying over the loss of life's greatest treasures. Love. Happiness. Even sadness had left her alone. She was nothing, or so she felt. The tears built up in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks, caressing over her perfect body, eventually becoming one with the pouring water that washed her clean of all sin. She was living a tragedy, building in agony, that seemingly left her alone after every turn. There was a moment, just a split second, where she could feel, and, oh, how she felt. It was as if all the propelled droplets of water had become nails and chunks of broken glass. If all her bones were to creak and moan, then finally break. If her skin and flesh were to peel back and expose all her muscle and inner tissue to this barrage of intense hurt. And then, it was gone.
      
           I often wonder who was watching the guardhouse when I came strolling by and decided I'd pop in for a visit. They'd be fired, but spared because they wouldn't have meant for some pyschotic bigot such as myself to wander in. In a way, I suppose we all have our demons, our ghosts, our dreams, but because we are us, we don't see or feel the problems of others as we would our own. I can't imagine how it would feel to be someone else, whose lover had died or had been stolen away from them by another "human." In some way, I have, but as I have said numerous times, we are Ourselves and we all have different reactions and gauges to feelings and hurt, but I suppose if we were all exactly equal, the fun would be gone. Don't you think?
           Ciao.

Author's Note

Any criticism would be nice. The topic is kinda dull, but that's what you get from the bastards who run this machine at 5 in the morning.