What's in a Name?

Online nicks say so much about a person. We start at the base of the pyramid. That is where the home_alone_with_cam's congregate. Run an eye up to see the cool_dudes and glam_chicks. Then we have the elegant versions, the queens and kings and knights, where the names are distinctly feminine or masculine, but not screaming blatant desperation. And what about the abstruse and the vague, whose only aim seem to be obfuscating the relatively simple concept of claiming an identity? Mysterious, magical, recondite, doubtful personae. Then there are the pretenders. Quite a daring bunch -- for unlike a child named Subbalakshmi who can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but who can conveniently blame her parents for inflicting the torture of having to lug around such an unlikely name on her unworthy shoulders, the pretenders have the self-imposed duty to live up to the name that they have chosen for themselves. Though the desire to be someone else is shamelessly evident in such an endeavour, admiration is due to those who are able to do justice to their nicks.

Those on top of the pyramid are those who choose to be known as who they really are. They are no night riders or street hawks or Paris Hiltons. They claim responsibility for their actions, opinions, creations. Brave enough to discard their masks and reveal themselves as they are, in this parallel universe of masquerades.

PS: Sola Vivit In Illo
because I believe that to be true, (hopeless case seems like)
and also because
Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur

Unloved

She was cursed by Love once. Love, in the pale blue flaming chariot, rode up to her and jabbed his fiery fingertips into her eyes, blinding her. Love hated her. So he blinded her.

So, in her blind world, she felt her way around. At times she rested by the flowing brook. The brook flowed with blood, it lapped at her feet and tainted her dainty toes. The crimson in her soul slowly trickled down to join the brook.

Love chided her for being dark and brooding. He twisted his fingers into her hair, his fiery fingers singed her scalp. And her eyes bled with tears. Love was disgusted at this pitiable show of passion.

Her face was tilted towards the warmth of Love. Love shone as a sun in her sky. Then Love shone brighter and her skin burnt crisp, bones burnt to cinders. She did not cry out in pain, for she feared Love’s wrath, she feared Love’s derision.

Love knelt by her and spat on her. “My Love, My Love”, she cried, wretched woman that she was. Love paid no heed, he did not need to.

Then Love draped a dirty, purple rag about her and tied her hands to his chariot with a silky rope that held false promises of tenderness. Her head was bowed and she knelt beside the chariot, as it began to move, slowly at first then picking up speed. Her knees were bruised, she got to her feet and started running.

And then Love dragged her, along the slush of her discarded prayers and devoted offerings. The oil that she had meant to anoint his head mixed with dirt now, coating her skinned knees.

Then they reached the town square. Love paused, theatrically. His face showed contempt and triumph. He had triumphed once again, as he always does. The townsfolk cast their slippers at her and they spat in contempt. The women crossed themselves for finding themselves safe and sound, as far away from her as possible for they feared she’d taint their homes. The men jeered at her for they were angered by her devotion to Love. And for they never found such naked adoration in their wives’ eyes as they found in the blind woman’s. The eunuchs laughed at her, they berated her loudly for letting herself be humiliated thus.

Love then locked her up, in a dark dungeon. His prize catch – the unloved.