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 were 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 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. The stains spread out, forming strange figures with no defined shape. Were they perhaps 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, adrift.
Outside his apartment, the noise of the city pulsed with the force of life: car horns, shouts, 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 for him, all of that felt like a separate world.
He felt as though his life was passing him by. He had no girlfriend, no close friends, and the only constant company was his art, even though it did not give him the validation he was searching for and so desperately needed.
Loneliness accompanied him with every note, with every brushstroke. He longed for recognition, but all he heard was his own voice in the void.
And so long hours passed in solitude 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 under the spotlights. A sturdy machine with enormous keys and a black monitor with a small rectangle blinking in bright green. The scene felt 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 he did not understand much. Then his attention jumped to the price tag. An absurd amount.
"Who would pay so much for something that doesn't even paint or make music?" he thought, and immediately afterward he laughed sarcastically and kept walking, without imagining what would happen in the future. But the laughter quickly faded, leaving behind a bitter taste. 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 room. 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.