A drunk woman near a bar somewhere in London once told me: “You? In a band? Your friends, yeah, but at best you look like you’re at uni doing an MBA in marketing. And *if* you played in a band, it would be fucking keyboards or something”

That’s me, with my button up shirt and my worn out walking shoes, blending in with the furniture. You might describe me as the poster-child for commitment issues. This guy, roaming around, freelancing, my important possessions stuffed into a backpack and a guitarbag. No real purpose or place. I can tell you my credentials, my hopes and dreams, my data as I would present it at any official institution, but then I remind myself,

I am not my country,
I am not my past,
I am not my hobbies,
I am not my self.

This is just a story.