anOldShu

(Fiction) (Dooms Day Villain monologue)

Names are a trivial thing. We are assigned one at birth and told that this name, this string of sounds and syllables, defines us. We go our entire lives being called by that name. Living by that name. Defined by and defining that name. Growing that name in the hopes of achieving meaning, in, and for that name. That name, something chosen for us (often before our births) becomes who we are. So, we submit to the pre-determined parameters and conditions that follow said name. Then is the name not the first link of the shackles of oppression? This of course seems ridiculous. After all a name is just a name. Although one must wonder at the universal insistence of nicknames. Self-chosen names or names assigned by others which we accept. Such things surly, rather consciously or not, must be a form of resistance to that first link. A resistance that comes when we are children, when freedom soars in the soul before society crashes down upon us.

Like our names we become assigned at birth (and even often before) with a multitude of categories. We are told what ethnicity we are. What religion we are. What gender We are. What nationality we belong to, what culture defines us, what school we represent. So on and so forth, pro vita ad aeternum. When the category is not visibly apparent, we are asked to fill in the blank. To lock ourselves in a box. Throw away the key, all so we’re easier to understand by others. Thus, we create a surplus of categorizations, which we are told are the building blocks of our person. Our character begins to form, and we feel as though we are an individual. Although, the attentive reader will almost immediately realize that every category mentioned before has lacked one vital object – choice. So, the pre-assigned building blocks stack up to form not an individual born unto freedom, free to define themselves, but a construction. A cementation, and the trick is done. The end result – a specter, an illusion, a miserable shambling being who suffers from anxiety, depression, and a slew of other mental health issues. These are not causes but symptoms of a repressed soul. An individual buried under categories.

So, what is a name? What is a category? Are these things not but a prison cell with harshly defined walls masquerading as the our identity? Have we not already in some ways come to recognize the prison? Gender, Sexuality, Religion, Allegiance, and Family, identities who’s validity are being questioned now. And are we as individuals, as a group, as a people, as humanity itself not better for doing so? Is not the biggest lie that anyone can tell the lie of which box they fit into? As if anyone could fit in to any box without busting out the sides.

I will break their false identities. I will sow chaos into the world. Borders will collapse and people will die. But in the end we will be unchained. You have to break a few eggs as the saying goes. The sacrifice of pawns has always been justified. You will call me a villain but I am your salvation.