Teenage Day Dream in the Waiting Room

In the labyrinthine tapestry of yesteryears, the chapter of what these soulless warlocks called education and prepping us for the real life was one big joke, you know what they say, FUCK YOU, IF YOU CAN'T TAKE A JOKE!

This time and space ambled through the corridors of my life, a conundrum wrapped in mystery, its subtlety akin to a winking trance.

The allure of athletic conquests and the flamboyant theater of schoolyard politics—those feeble attempts at beguilement—fluttered away like leaves in a gust.

Instead, I surrendered myself to whimsical reveries, where the electric chords of sound vibrated within the cocooned haven of a classroom. My countless sharpie drawings the next weekend fixed in my black book.

In the midst of the swarm of budding intellects, a damsel held her throne at the forefront, tantalizingly close in the physical realm, yet galaxies apart in her obliviousness to my very existence.

My adolescent infatuation burgeoned into proportions beyond the realm of childish imaginings. Time, that ever-tenacious charioteer, propelled us onward, dragging us mere mortals through the continuum, leaving mere seconds for contemplation. We pranced and postured, convinced we authored stories of virtue, but every time we dared to close our eyes, the narratives slipped through our grasp like water through cupped hands.

The chronicle of my life unspooled—a dance ephemeral, pirouetting on the knife's edge between the palpable contours of reality and the nebulous realms of dreams.

Revisiting the embrace of my formative grounds was akin to wandering through a twilight realm, inhabited by the ghosts of memories past. Familiar expressions underwent metamorphoses, casting off the veils of recognition.

The cherished billiards hall, once a sanctuary of youthful fascination, had shape-shifted into a sterile outpost of convenience. Oh, how the currents of time conspired to pilfer our relics of sentimentality, replacing them with an unfamiliar landscape devoid of nostalgic echoes.

Embarking on an odyssey into the heart of the urban labyrinth in the quest for livelihood was a tragicomic spectacle. Qualifications, mere whispers amidst the discord failed to warrant more than a passing glance.

My gaze dropped, tracing the weariness etched into the denim fabric of my pants—a battlefield worn thin by life's relentless skirmishes. It was as if the cosmic conductor had orchestrated a symphony of setbacks tailor-made for my name.

Ah, the fleeting ecstasies—like fireflies in the night, they shimmered briefly before vanishing into the velvety expanse.

How I pined for their enduring embrace! My reminiscences retraced the path of delight that once illuminated our days, navigating the twisting corridors leading to their untimely dissolution.

And now, teetering on the precipice of this somber bed, I stand a solitary troubadour, fingers caressing the strings of my guitar, my voice an emissary for melancholic melodies woven from the threads of forbidden passion. Thinking about that piece of art, I could have done better. And the trick I fucked up and now I know ...why now?

I mull over your present undertakings, wondering when the cosmic dice will roll once more, heralding our reunion upon the shared stage of existence. Life, that relentless sprinter, hurtles forward; we humble mortals scramble to pen our verses of virtue amidst the clamor.

As the sands of time trickle ceaselessly, each grain reshapes life into minutes, and minutes stretching like a weary traveler into hours, it becomes achingly evident that every lazy blink ushers me closer to the abyss of obscurity.

Thus, the saga of my life reverberates through the echoing chambers of existence, a composition woven with threads of paradox and enigma, an homage to the transient nature of our day dream quests.

- Wanton the Street Artists