Year: 1988 | Turpentine
The sound of a slightly out-of-tune electric guitar filled the small room of an artist.
A room crowded with unfinished canvases, half-dried paint tubes, and crumpled sheets of paper covered 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 muted colors, reflected his stalled creativity.
He himself sat on the floor near a wall, the guitar resting across his legs, staring at the ceiling as if searching for answers in the damp stains spreading above him, forming strange figures with no defined shape.
Could they have been 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; car horns, shouting, and the constant roar of the subway.
The uproar of the city blended with the radio announcing the major releases of the fall of '88. But to him, all of it felt like a separate world.
He felt as though life was passing him by. He had no girlfriend, no close friends, and the only constant company he had was his art, even though it did not give him the validation he wanted.
Loneliness accompanied him with every note, with every brushstroke. He longed for recognition, but heard only his own voice in the void.
And so long hours passed until, later on, he decided to go out for a walk.
He walked down a busy street, carrying an old briefcase stained with paint all over, 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 shone beneath the spotlights. A sturdy machine with enormous keys and a black monitor displaying a small rectangle blinking in bright green. The scene felt far too cold to him. The machine, with its plastic design, seemed strange.
—"What the hell is that supposed to be?" he thought, frowning.
He carefully read the features and specifications on a nearby sheet of paper, but did not understand much. Then his attention jumped to the price tag. Written by hand was an absurd amount.
—"Who would pay that much for something that doesn't even paint or make music?" he thought, and immediately afterward laughed sarcastically and kept walking.
But the laughter quickly faded, leaving behind a bitter taste. Once again, fear of his own future invaded him. Would he be able to find his place in the world? Or was he doomed to wander aimlessly, without a destiny of his own?
That day, he returned to his small apartment. He was filled with more questions than answers. Overwhelmed and distressed, he threw himself onto the bed, closed his eyes, and forgot everything for a moment.