My Dearest Anushka,
I don’t know where to begin, but it seems to me that most real stories can only begin in one place. At birth. Undoubtedly we could go back from there and look at the catalysts that led to my conception, but surely the events would just spiral backwards through history, spreading wider and wider.
I couldn’t begin to imagine where the initial catalyst for my existence was. Several centuries ago perhaps, where events have since comprised of trillions of metaphysical instances that led to that one moment where I flickered into the world. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it would be arrogant to believe that so much of the universe was geared towards any one person’s life. Although it is my belief that this is true of each of us; and we’re all part of an ever growing tapestry, and that without any one of us, it would simply unravel.
It is that hypothesis that leads me to believe that whilst we may not be together now; our existence here and now, is intrinsic to our future. And whilst the thought of me may cause hatred in your heart now; your soul, I hope, knows only belonging when with me.
So I was born, as so many of us are. And it was then that my parents named me, they named me by the most non-poetic method available to them. They chose something mundane, everyday, popular. And so my future was set. My name, given, not chosen, would be the catalyst for so many emotions, so many reactions. Should my name be regarded with irrational dislike through association, I would, in turn, be subject to that very same dislike, albeit shrouded in the mist of ignorance.
I am not omitted from this strange phenomenon; since an unfortunate relationship with a girl called Kirsty, I’ve been unable to see people named Kirsty in the same way. This is just another example of how things out of our control affect us. It is these predispositions that leave us broken and withered, and it was my weakness for predispositions that destroyed my world.
Shakespeare once wrote, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’, but I’m forced to disagree with the great playwright; whilst his intention was undoubtedly to open minds, it is ignorant to believe that no one plays victim to the plague of predisposition. People will like, love or condemn you on the spot the very moment they hear your name. ‘You don’t look like a John.’, ‘I had a boyfriend called Harry once, he was horrible’, ‘that’s a weird name’.
Names illicit reactions, and as such, are catalysts for the initiation of most of your relationships that will occur in your life. If your name is Cosmo, you’ll learn to welcome shocked reactions. If your name is John Smith, you’ll be lost to the thousands.
What’s in a name? We didn’t choose ours, but it would predetermine interactions for the rest of our life – can we be held responsible for such a weight placed upon us at birth?