There is beauty in the rawness – the authenticity that comes from having to work for your life. When you’re given everything from birth, you never learn the drive for survival. Your instincts boil around, dormant and muddled, shaping a convoluted sense of purpose.
(This is my life, riding the privilege to philosophical cynicism ‘art school’, wondering why I have the right to pander in institutional irony.)
My own certainly seems to emanate more poison.