The Witching Hour June 11, 2012 12:13

It is at the witching hour - 4am - that my pain and longing screams out the loudest. I, perplexed, wonder whether it counterintuitively chooses to scream when no one can hear but me or if I just don't hear it all day during the din of bullshit and sunlight. Is it my loss of distraction - or is it the silence itself drawing these fears as close to my breast as a nursing child - my thoughts wander to nurturing. Something I have always wanted but rarely gotten - but I can get sex with a look. I hear the radio blaring its agreement: "So I called up Marie, she'd have sex for free, but for 10 bucks an hour she'd listen to me" - how does Butch Walker know me so well? Butch Walker of Cartersville? But he's not of Cartersville any more than I am from Roswell or Alpharetta - we are both children of this city. Another line blazes through my brain: "Oh, Atlanta, please need me like I need you, let your sweaty embrace open wide..." - Oh, Atlanta, please need me. I want everything - coffee, sedatives, laxatives, cigarettes, heroin, and sex. I want anything. If I can believe in it for 5 seconds, I'll take it. This bloody battle plays its way out in my head at a 20 minute lag behind reality - No sleep or food for over 20 days. I see past events of the day in dreamlike states, asking people whether or not they even happened, assuming the negative - it's always the positive. I cry for sleep - I get none. My soul I keep - but not for fun.