Aristotle tells me about matter and form, the substance and the shape that we take. It’s the content of the matter that determine what form it can take. But then I look at myself and I see that I am all but matter, lots of matter put together. Then when I try to form something, I crumble, because I’m all adulterated. It’s like emotions coming in the way of science. You need the right kind of people to understand those kinds of discoveries.
I guess that’s why artists suffer, not that I am a good one, but because they try so many things, have so many thoughts, that their idealism pelts them to create any solid foundation. Maybe everyone who says that they’re many things suffer with these complexities. They’re never stable, never concrete, ever fluid.
And to anyone who gets to know me, I want you to know that I’m inconsistent because I portray myself as a different person to different beings. Neither is my ability nor my identity ever stable. What am I? A musician, a writer, a campaigner, I don’t know. I just hope that when we meet, we meet in the right form. But morphing every time: not what’s a struggle.
The nihilist 