Relapse (Franklin’s Story)
Here is Franklin. Franklin lives in a headache. He confidently sits at his desk with his papers, his white papers, the ones with little numbers on them, and stares into the strobing abyss of the world wide web.
His watch is a constant tick that has fused to his wrist, leaving a little tan line in his skin that’ll always be there, forever, or at least until the battery dies. Right now it is 12:08 PM; a feeble attempt by mankind to hold on to and label something as precious as time. It will never again be 12:08 PM on February the 13th, 2006; a typical Monday only labeled as typical due to the seemingly dull nature of every other Monday within Franklin’s past experiences. As he checks his watch, the seconds slowly die away and, alas, can only be remembered from better times when such a tragedy seemed ever-so far away. It is a reminder that growing older really is a constant. As of right now, Franklin is hungry.
In his sack lunch, there is a tuna sandwich, crackers, pear slices, and a Capri Sun. The tuna sandwich and crackers make his mouth feel dry. The pear slices and Capri Sun make his mouth feel wet. Together, they blend to make the perfect combination, only to be recognized by Franklin’s satisfaction. As Franklin finishes, he likes to crumple his lunch bag into a tight, brown, paper ball which he uses to score the winning basket of Game 7 with, in the 2006 NBA Finals. His mark is off, and he misses. The team hangs its head in defeat.
Franklin’s whole life consists of gray. He wakes up beneath gray sheets, takes a steaming shower under a gray faucet, rinses his mouth of spent gray toothpaste, and speculates into gray eyes that show only in mirrors. Yesterday is just the same as today and tomorrow; it’s just that pen has already hit paper for one. He doesn’t believe in fate because all it is to him is coincidence or false-hope. Time is just a lopsided measure of something that is too far away from us. Tragedy is the wilting that comes with time. Everything sort of makes sense, in Franklin’s eyes, which is why life is so boring. Everything is gray.
From now until tomorrow morning, Franklin will do but five things, in such order: look at serene images on the internet after tying “summer” into the Google Image search engine (his favorite is the 14th one), eat dinner at the nearest fast food restaurant, urinate in complete solitude (making sure that such happened in a public restroom), attempt to read more of Bill Clinton’s autobiography, and, upon failing, sleep. In the morning, Franklin is feeling no less spectacular than he is any other morning. He sips at his coffee and stares into the jumbled thoughts of the editorial page. He does this every morning before heading to work. Once he finishes, he will pour the rest of the coffee into a canister that his co-worker won in a raffle for charity. She didn’t want it and gave it to him. Once the lid of the canister is secure, he will put on a coat and walk to the bus stop where he’ll board the bus to his working location. Once on the bus, he will sit in the same seat as always, ignore the passing landscape, and stay focused on the writing that will be glaring at him from the back of the seat in front of him. “Fuck You,” it’ll exclaim, and Franklin will wonder about the degree of anger that someone must have or have had to write such profane, harsh words on that poor innocent seat that simply sat in front of him every day.
This is what happened yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Franklin didn’t want this to happen, not today, not again. Each and every day is different, but to him it is all the same, everything is just the same, over and over. Over and over, Franklin’s life is on a constant repeat of yesterday. In such a vacuum, memories don’t seem to flourish like before; before, when yesterday wasn’t such a preview, and was more of a prelude to today. Today is a new day, right? Of course things can be different. I’m sure things can be different if I try hard enough. If I try. Things can be different. Every day is different, but to you it is all the same, everything is just the same, over and over. You’re wasting yourself, Franklin. Stop it. As you sit in one spot, the same spot you’ve always been in, time will show you no mercy. Time doesn’t pity you Franklin, it won’t pity you, it passes you. It passes you just like the world passes you now, Franklin. Stop it. Think of all that you’ve lost in this, this growing pit, think of all that you’re losing now, Franklin; now you’re losing. You’re losing time. Go away. You can’t ever be a kid again. Go away. You can’t ever have memories, dreams anymore. Dreams are for the future. The future is for people, normal people, who have somewhere to go, who keep up with this thing that you just can’t hold on to. Stop. Dreams are for humans, Franklin. Dreams are for people. Fuck you. You shouldn’t be here. You’ve already failed. You shouldn’t have ever been here, never. I hate you. You are nothing. You are completely lost in something that doesn’t exist. Stop trying to hold on to whatever you think you have. All you are holding on to is yesterday, when reality wasn’t so fucked up, when this world wasn’t so fucked up. I hate you. She is gone. I HATE YOU. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.GO AWAY. YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. LET YOURSELF GO. STOP.
Here is Franklin.
Franklin now has a headache. He confidently sits at his desk with his papers, his white papers, the ones with little numbers on them, and stares into the strobing abyss of the world wide web.
Here is Franklin. Franklin lives in a headache. He confidently sits at his desk with his papers, his white papers, the ones with little numbers on them, and stares into the strobing abyss of the world wide web.
His watch is a constant tick that has fused to his wrist, leaving a little tan line in his skin that’ll always be there, forever, or at least until the battery dies. Right now it is 12:08 PM; a feeble attempt by mankind to hold on to and label something as precious as time. It will never again be 12:08 PM on February the 13th, 2006; a typical Monday only labeled as typical due to the seemingly dull nature of every other Monday within Franklin’s past experiences. As he checks his watch, the seconds slowly die away and, alas, can only be remembered from better times when such a tragedy seemed ever-so far away. It is a reminder that growing older really is a constant. As of right now, Franklin is hungry.
In his sack lunch, there is a tuna sandwich, crackers, pear slices, and a Capri Sun. The tuna sandwich and crackers make his mouth feel dry. The pear slices and Capri Sun make his mouth feel wet. Together, they blend to make the perfect combination, only to be recognized by Franklin’s satisfaction. As Franklin finishes, he likes to crumple his lunch bag into a tight, brown, paper ball which he uses to score the winning basket of Game 7 with, in the 2006 NBA Finals. His mark is off, and he misses. The team hangs its head in defeat.
Franklin’s whole life consists of gray. He wakes up beneath gray sheets, takes a steaming shower under a gray faucet, rinses his mouth of spent gray toothpaste, and speculates into gray eyes that show only in mirrors. Yesterday is just the same as today and tomorrow; it’s just that pen has already hit paper for one. He doesn’t believe in fate because all it is to him is coincidence or false-hope. Time is just a lopsided measure of something that is too far away from us. Tragedy is the wilting that comes with time. Everything sort of makes sense, in Franklin’s eyes, which is why life is so boring. Everything is gray.
From now until tomorrow morning, Franklin will do but five things, in such order: look at serene images on the internet after tying “summer” into the Google Image search engine (his favorite is the 14th one), eat dinner at the nearest fast food restaurant, urinate in complete solitude (making sure that such happened in a public restroom), attempt to read more of Bill Clinton’s autobiography, and, upon failing, sleep. In the morning, Franklin is feeling no less spectacular than he is any other morning. He sips at his coffee and stares into the jumbled thoughts of the editorial page. He does this every morning before heading to work. Once he finishes, he will pour the rest of the coffee into a canister that his co-worker won in a raffle for charity. She didn’t want it and gave it to him. Once the lid of the canister is secure, he will put on a coat and walk to the bus stop where he’ll board the bus to his working location. Once on the bus, he will sit in the same seat as always, ignore the passing landscape, and stay focused on the writing that will be glaring at him from the back of the seat in front of him. “Fuck You,” it’ll exclaim, and Franklin will wonder about the degree of anger that someone must have or have had to write such profane, harsh words on that poor innocent seat that simply sat in front of him every day.
This is what happened yesterday and the day before and the day before that. Franklin didn’t want this to happen, not today, not again. Each and every day is different, but to him it is all the same, everything is just the same, over and over. Over and over, Franklin’s life is on a constant repeat of yesterday. In such a vacuum, memories don’t seem to flourish like before; before, when yesterday wasn’t such a preview, and was more of a prelude to today. Today is a new day, right? Of course things can be different. I’m sure things can be different if I try hard enough. If I try. Things can be different. Every day is different, but to you it is all the same, everything is just the same, over and over. You’re wasting yourself, Franklin. Stop it. As you sit in one spot, the same spot you’ve always been in, time will show you no mercy. Time doesn’t pity you Franklin, it won’t pity you, it passes you. It passes you just like the world passes you now, Franklin. Stop it. Think of all that you’ve lost in this, this growing pit, think of all that you’re losing now, Franklin; now you’re losing. You’re losing time. Go away. You can’t ever be a kid again. Go away. You can’t ever have memories, dreams anymore. Dreams are for the future. The future is for people, normal people, who have somewhere to go, who keep up with this thing that you just can’t hold on to. Stop. Dreams are for humans, Franklin. Dreams are for people. Fuck you. You shouldn’t be here. You’ve already failed. You shouldn’t have ever been here, never. I hate you. You are nothing. You are completely lost in something that doesn’t exist. Stop trying to hold on to whatever you think you have. All you are holding on to is yesterday, when reality wasn’t so fucked up, when this world wasn’t so fucked up. I hate you. She is gone. I HATE YOU. STOP LYING TO YOURSELF.GO AWAY. YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. LET YOURSELF GO. STOP.
Here is Franklin.
Franklin now has a headache. He confidently sits at his desk with his papers, his white papers, the ones with little numbers on them, and stares into the strobing abyss of the world wide web.
posted by Anthony at 12:46 AM
1 comments
