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.)
And now I find myself here, insufflating the balmy aroma of
fire and livestock, not fermented by industrial squalor but filtered through
lush vegetation. I breathe the air, which tastes of hardy rural cleanliness -
dirt and earth, not grime – and think on all the biological threats I’ve been
promised.
As we pass shanties built -true 3rd world DIY –
from any of the tiniest scraps, rusty metal and planks, I notice no
overwhelming layer of trash. I see innumerable stray dogs, skeletal cattle and
horses tied to light posts, but not one dead. No roadkill.
I think, how can this country be so toxic?
My own certainly seems to emanate more poison.
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