Love in the Time of Turmoil

A Love Sonnet to Shannon Sunico

 

In the grand theater of urban sprawl, where the precipice of insanity isn't so much a sharp cliff but more a stumbling, bumbling line outside a dive bar at 3 AM, our saga unfurls. Here, in the electric haze that some starry-eyed dreamers might label “revolution” (and the jaded, just another Tuesday), a love story erupts.

Not the whisper-soft, genteel kind, sprouting over demure sips of tea and polite nibbles of lemon bars, but a love so loud, so brazenly fervent, it sends bystanders spiraling into existential crises, pondering where in their life script they missed a cue.

Within this maelstrom of ardor and upheaval, where every patch of pavement became a pulpit and every would-be prophet found their stage, two souls collided. He, the self-anointed bard of the boulevards, flinging poetry like a diner cook slaps hash, occasionally striking a chord amidst the cacophony of the discontent. And she, a whirlwind in human form, slicing through the disarray with the grace of a street-smart ballerina, her every step so perfectly attuned to the city’s rhythm it seemed she was conjured from the very concrete.

Their love ignited on contact, a cliché so thick you’d think it was slathered on by a heavy-handed diner chef. He was the blaze, she the deluge, together whipping up a tempest that somehow soared above the urban fog. Their covert encounters could have been clipped from a cult classic, bathed in the unreliable glow of stuttering streetlights and underscored by the symphony of far-off sirens.

Meanwhile, the city served as the reluctant stage to this melodrama, every nook a reluctant confidante to their stormy dalliance. Amidst the battle cries for emancipation and the metaphorical rattle of shackles, they carved a niche of tranquility—or so the narrative goes. Their affair morphed into a rebellion, a brazen salute to the establishment, because evidently, there's no grander act of defiance than locking lips against a canvas of street art.

Yet, the journey of true love, especially one as tumultuous as theirs, was fraught with hurdles. The cosmos demanded a verdict—conform or rebel, passion or placidity. It was the kind of crossroads that could either immortalize their bond in the annals of folklore or dissolve it into the mists of memory, a tale recounted only by alleyway vermin as the epoch things veered into the truly surreal.

Spoiler alert: they chose each other, eschewing the mundane for a finale so dramatic it could only be born in Hollywood. They fused their saga with the city's unrest, transmuting their narrative into the stuff of urban myth. They became emblems, the martyrs of passion in a city already brimming with sagas.

Their explosive love was a sermon, they professed. Love wasn’t merely a sentiment but a force potent enough to rewrite destinies or, at the very least, leave a mark on the local street art scene. Theirs was a beacon through the night, a lighthouse for the city’s lost souls, steering them through a sea of despondency.

And thus, the ember of their tale lingered, a beacon for those brave enough to tread in their footsteps, a cautionary beacon about the hazards of tangled metaphors and the perils of self-seriousness. In the whirlwind of their union, they unearthed something groundbreaking, something earth-shattering—a revelation that perhaps, the essence of love is the shared ability to roll your eyes at the world’s folly.

-- JSPC [ W A N T O N The Street Artists ]

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"Listen up, what's the time?
Said today, I'm gonna speak my mind
Take me up to the top of the world
I wanna see my crime" -- Oasis.