I am called a “sellout, a man with no principles, a hound for wealth.” Those are mere words. Yes, I’m willing to trade my dreams for gems and jewels, for gold and silver. I embrace the taint that comes with this exchange.

What is the point of art if it is not understood? You create pieces that resonate deeply, yet what value does a masterpiece hold if it remains unseen? You pour your soul into your work, tears welling as you behold the finished piece, but others turn away, oblivious. A creation born too soon, you die of starvation, clinging to your idealism, a tragic figure in a world that doesn’t care.

A century later, your bones are dust. Your work, once neglected, is now revered. “It must have been crafted by gods; it’s perfect,” they say, worshipping what they cannot comprehend. People kill and steal for a glimpse, believing that owning a piece of your soul validates their existence. Yet you lie forgotten, too dead to bask in the glory your art now commands.

My works never reached this era, but my name did. “The wealthiest man in history, surprisingly an artist,” they conclude, assuming my creations were astounding. While I, the so-called sellout, lived a comfortable life, you suffered for your dream, your spirit bruised in the struggle.

So I ask again: was it worth it?