My name

When I was taught to write my own name I couldn’t stop. I wrote it everywhere: on bus shelters, scraps of paper, trees. It was the opposite of egotism. Each time I wrote it it was as if another part of me disappeared, and yet I couldn’t stop. At first I felt ashamed of my name, when there was still a link between us. Later it became a name like anyone else’s, and later still, when I really lost it, a string of obscure signs like runes or hieroglyphs.

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