Fatigue.

I know it's time to write, but I feel as though there is nothing to write about. My days are empty here, just the silence of this apartment, the clickity clack of my keyboard as my fingers move dexterously across it.

My mother seems hell bent on ruining every possible positive mood I could muster. And I'm tired of it. What is the point of being here if I don't even feel welcome? I'm only here for you.

I don't want to eat breakfast. I don't want fake like I actually have something to do today. Because I don't. I never do. Just this silence.

I hate this silence.

I discovered a ledge underneath my bedroom window, I covered myself appropriately and climbed out onto it. Looked up at the small slither of a sky squeezed in between two concrete monsters and suddenly felt afraid.

What if I were to fall? And die? Right there? In this god forsaken desert? I thought.

And with those thoughts clutched closely to my chest I solemnly climbed back inside the safe confines of my prison.

I refuse to let this place take my life as well as my happiness.

My moments of despair are outfitted with appropriate Zencast podcasts, the lonely spaces are filled with lessons on how to become a dutiful Buddhist. I feel a headache form in the cushy perimeter of the left side of my head and I let out a sigh. Dispersing this negative energy burrowed so deep within me perhaps?

I am tired of fantasizing, I am tired of biding my time.

I am simply tired.

I won't sit on the ledge, I will sit on the windowsill and I will find cigarettes, because after all...what else is there to do? I'd rather live a picturesque bored life made for the cinema then live another day as the dutiful wasted daughter.

Why can't we speak english anymore? Why can't you just be direct in what you say? There are so many different forms of "internet slang" "thug slang" "slang slang" that even I am at a loss for what you actually mean? What happened to a good grammatically correct sentence? You are talking to me about a business proposition and yet I have no idea what you are actually saying? What does that say about us? About tomorrow? About yesterday?

Why don't you think of us? Of tomorrow? Of yesterday?

Let me be honest with myself, I fell out in love with him the moment he showed disregard for my literature, because in a sense it mirrored him showing disregard for my heart, for a true understanding of me, how can you love something you refuse to know?

The sea is cancerous, isn't that a mind fuck? There are portions of the ocean that if I swim in, my skin and eye balls will burn off.

BP cares.

I am thirsty, but I don't want to get a drink, I simply don't want to cross the path of the self consumed self victimizing monster that has taken over my most beloved once more this morning. When she's in these slumps she forgets that she isn't the only one affected by this fuck up.

Do you know what it feels like to have your entire life, your entire personality be defined by your mother's romantic mistakes? It is the most belittling feeling on this earth, to be summarized in one small and jaded action, time and time again. My family sees me and thinks "She'd be normal if her mother was".

But my pain is forgotten, because I choose to forget it, in turn making her life easier, one less tear she has to wipe up. I keep myself happy, not only for myself, but for the people around me, because after all smile's are contagious, but they're getting harder as the silence wears on.

I know this will all be over soon, I know this solitude, this massive wave of loneliness will seem like a faint memory in the life of Atlanta, but it is my now, and my now is all I know. My now is deep and vast, every feeling amplified, every sound holds meaning, every thought a justification for my misery. Over analytical and morose Franki. The creative genius rears her ugly head. As words flow like poetry through my fingers into this metallic vessel, I sneer at the mundane, I spit on the average.

My throat is so dry. The silence is so loud. And the light isn't bright enough.

And then my thoughts mull over the thought of a man. My thoughts confuse me. Sometimes I see them as a small child that I watch with amusement in the playground, it looks up at me occasionally seeking encouragement for whichever toy it has created but it mostly ignores me and continues to play in it's own imaginary world. And I sit, on a park bench, with a coffee and just watch and wait for something to happen.

These past weeks it has brought my attention to the thoughts of a man, a dear friend, a dear friend I didn't know well before I left, a dear friend who shouldn't have made the cut but for some strange reason did, it continues to bring this man before me. And I remain seated and look up at him, scrutinize him, scrunch my face and stick my tongue out in aversion at the idea, she kicks my shin, pulls at my skirt and forces me to stand.

And now I am facing him. A questioning look of skepticism on my countenance. He smiles, and there is a slow flutter in my stomach, weak but strong enough to make me wretch. It is not his own physical being that incites such distaste, it's the whole affair in general.

But then I find that thinking of him makes the silence easier. Cushions my thoughts, paints a smile in my now. Thinking of him helps.

Thinking that perhaps he might read this and wonder if I'm writing about him, perhaps he might think I'm being emotional, maybe it'll scare him, if he draws that conclusion he doesn't know me very well. I just sit and watch her play, I take care of her, I protect her and I'll release her when the time is right, she seems to have chosen him, for what purpose I think I know, in fact I do know, but I'm too unmotivated to fully delve into it. I remain cautious at all times, cautious and tired.

Right now I think she brings you forward because my thoughts of you are happy, and I need that happiness in these moments, I don't know if she'll still see you as the go to figure in my heart, in my head once I reach freedom. Once my days are filled with work. With purpose.

Once my days are filled with you. Once I am filled with you.

Double entendre.

But then again, I might not even be talking about a person, I could be talking about a thing, about an action, about a place, about a certain space on this planet, just something that makes me smile.

Cause that's all I need really. A hug and a smile. That's all I ever need. It's easy to keep me happy, because I keep myself happy, so external forces are rarely needed.

I'm like a self cleaning oven in a way, just press a button and in 20 minutes I'm sparkling.

But today? Today?

Repair is needed.

Finito.