Year: 1988 | Turpentine
The sound of an electric guitar, slightly out of tune, filled the small room of an artist.
A room crowded with unfinished canvases, half-dried paint tubes, and crumpled sheets of paper with song lyrics he never managed to complete.
The thick air smelled of turpentine, mineral spirits, and dust, a mixture that had always been present in his solitude.
The canvases piled up in the corners, waiting in vain for a final touch. The paint tubes, with their sticky caps and dull colors, reflected his stalled creativity.
He himself was sitting on the floor near a wall, the guitar resting on his legs, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the damp stains spreading across it, forming strange figures with no defined shape.
Were they a reflection of his uncertain future?
—Maybe this isn't for me, he murmured, letting his head fall back against the wall.
The impact against the cold plaster reminded him of the harshness of reality, the lack of warmth in his life.
He felt alone, without direction.
Outside his apartment, the noise of the city pulsed with the force of life, horns, shouting, and the constant sound of the subway.
The roar of the city blended with the radio announcing the big releases of the fall of '88. But to him, all of it felt like a separate world.
He felt as if his life was passing him by. He had no girlfriend, no close friends, and the only constant company was his art, even though it failed to give him the validation he sought and desperately needed.
Loneliness accompanied him with every note, with every brushstroke. He longed for recognition but only heard his own voice echoing in the void.
Hours passed like this until later, he decided to go out for a walk.
He walked down a busy street, carrying an old briefcase stained with paint on every side, where he kept some sketches and sheet music.
When he reached a corner, he stopped in front of a technology store.
In the display window, one of the first personal computers gleamed under the spotlights. A bulky machine with oversized keys and a black monitor showing a small rectangle blinking in bright green. The scene felt too cold for him. The machine, with its plastic design, seemed alien.
"What the hell is that supposed to be?" he thought, frowning.
He carefully read the features and specifications printed on a nearby sheet but understood very little. Then his attention jumped to the price tag. An absurd amount.
"Who would pay that much for something that doesn't even paint or make music?" he thought, and immediately laughed sarcastically as he kept walking, without imagining what the future would bring.
But the laughter faded quickly, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Fear of his own future crept in. Would he be able to find his place in the world? Or was he destined to wander aimlessly, without a destiny of his own?
That day, he returned to his small room. He was filled with more questions than answers. Overwhelmed and anxious, he threw himself onto the bed, closed his eyes, and forgot everything for a moment.