Dear Mr. Juvenile, I'm really struggling to understand what's happening across the land. The streets that I knew as a little boy, I barely recognize them as a man. And maybe that's just the path that my generation has to face. A path in which you play a part, but a path in which I play a mistake.
Now I fully understand alienation, I remember youthful frustration, the similar talks of disenfranchisement of Thatcher's lost generation. I know all about stop and search, I bear the scars and show the hurt. And I know how hard it is to stand tall when they close the walls around your worth.
But what I don't understand is, why am I sitting outside my block at four o'clock in the morning, keeping watch so you don't rob my family just because you're finding life boring. You claim that nobody gives a damn, but I've seen the dramas between the gangs, allowing postcodes to carve you up with self-inflicted culture playing the devil's postman.
Maybe I'm just a little out of touch, can you please school me onto something? Is this consumerism in its purest form or a mental wardrobe malfunction? We all know that life can seem unjust, and a day in mayhem provides a rush. Absent fathers are like absent leaders, when you really need them they don't show up. Is this the only way for your story to get told, or is it all about that mobile phone? Or have we just fought too many battles abroad, neglecting the war zones outside our homes?
But how can you and I peacefully communicate, before the tension really escalates? The rich pritch-breed for the trickle-down feed you rush out on the street and cheat the immigrant. So dear Mr. Juvenile, I'm still sitting outside my block, waiting for your path to cross with mine because we're off against the clock. Perhaps I'll never truly understand this new road on which you venture, but I'll still extend my hand in the hope that we can fix this mess together. you
