That's Not My Name

I have been cursed with a label that suited me too well. It chimed with a voice in my head, a whisper that suddenly grew loud and strident, sure in its truth.

I found, by chance (by fate? by devilish design? or maybe sought them out on purpose?) a series of men who agreed with the label. These were smart men - because they saw me for what I was. Were not fooled by the outer wrappings, the window dressing, the glossy competence of the carapace. Recognised the inner me and sang in harmony with That Voice.

At first they sang it with wry delight. Later they yelled, roared, raged. Then, generally, they stopped mentioning it. After all, it's only a small step from "hard" to "too hard" but the effort would have to be worth it, right? Ne vaut pas le detour.

There's a comfort, a familiarity in patterns, isn't there? Hear the same things often enough and the ritual might almost be soothing in its repeat. Perhaps it's the route of least resistance to play the role in which you're cast. And in the end, maybe the feeling you've become trapped in the wrong film might fade away and you might ...... settle.....

There have been people who have been close to penetrating the armadillo armour: The Voice tells me they still only see the edited highlights. If no one gets right inside, really close, they won't see what's really there. Or they won't get close enough to want to disprove the theory in the first place.

So what would happen if I decided to strip away every element of artifice? Just be - myself?

It looked for a moment like, after all this time, years of treading a groove into the same old familiar step, my label was going to be - wrong! A nervous, tentative excitement began to emerge, blinking in the sunshine, faltering like a bambi, wide-eyed and gullible.

Then it hit me. Slam. The whole situation is new, and shiny, and wonderful. But the label is the same. Different factors, old familiar outcome. All roads lead to home, after all.