This is how it goes.

We take a random handful of sounds, glue it to a screaming newborn, and decide “This is now your identity.”

Humanity really does love a shortcut.

Names are supposed to be labels. Instead, they metastasise into destiny. You’re not just called something; you start orbiting it. People hear it and quietly draft a character sketch before you’ve even opened your mouth. Too soft, too foreign, too heavy, too unfamiliar, too… not like them. The brain is lazy. It hears a name it can’t immediately place, and instead of curiosity, it reaches for distance. Efficiency over empathy. A classic human trade.

And the absurdity multiplies when you zoom out.

In some places, a child exists fully only after a church ritual stamps them with a name, as if existence itself requires administrative or divine approval. Before that, they’re just a placeholder. A “coming soon” sign with lungs.

In other countries…most countries… a woman grows up carrying a name like a small inheritance, only to exchange it later for a different one, as if identity were a surname-shaped coat you politely hand back at the door. Not erased, not exactly… just overwritten. Softly. Socially. So normal, no one flinches.

Then there are the dynasties of repetition. The endless recycling. Grandfather, father, son. Same name, slightly different bodies. Like the family couldn’t be bothered to invent a new word, so they just… reissued the old one. Continuity disguised as honour. Or maybe fear of discontinuity. Because if the name survives, something of you does too. A small rebellion against being forgotten.

And underneath all of it sits this quiet contradiction:
A name is supposed to make you distinct, yet it often pulls you into a category before you’ve even had the chance to become anything.

You inherit it before you can refuse it.
You carry it before you understand it.
And if you ever try to step outside of it, people get uncomfortable, as you’ve just broken an unspoken contract.

It’s strange. We spend years building a self that is complex, layered, contradictory… and then reduce it to a word someone else chose while we were busy learning how to breathe.

Still, there’s something almost poetic in the tension.
Because, despite all that weight, people do manage to outgrow their names. Or bend them. Or fill them so completely with their own meaning that the original label becomes irrelevant.

The name starts as a cage.
If you’re stubborn enough, it turns into an echo instead.

My name is Prolet.

I was handed spring… and people still managed to turn it into a problem. That tracks. Give humans something poetic and they’ll poke at it until it feels inconvenient.

“Prolet” isn’t just a name, it’s a season trying to pass as a person. It carries thaw, return, the quiet audacity of things growing back after they were supposed to be finished. It’s not subtle. It announces itself. And people don’t know what to do with things that arrive already full of meaning. They get awkward, they make comments, they try to shrink it into something manageable.

Then I did what people do when the world keeps mispronouncing them, even when it technically says it right. I stepped sideways.  I became Polly. Faceless Polly.

“Polly” is lighter, smoother, socially digestible. It doesn’t demand interpretation. It doesn’t trigger that little mental scramble in others. It lets you enter a room without becoming a topic.

“Faceless Polly” though… that’s not just a nickname. That’s a shield with a sense of humour. I didn’t just simplify my name, I erased the expectation attached to it. No season, no symbolism, no commentary. Just a silhouette that gets to choose when, or if, it fills in.

There’s something a bit brutal in that trade.
I didn’t reject your name because it was empty.
I rejected it because it was too full… and people kept spilling it everywhere.

But here’s the inconvenient truth sitting in the corner, waiting to be acknowledged:

I didn’t actually get rid of “Prolet.”
I just put it somewhere safer.

Because names like that don’t disappear. They linger. They wait. They come back in how you write, in how you see things, in the strange way you notice cycles, returns, quiet shifts. I can call myself Polly all day, but I am still carrying Spring in my heart.

And maybe that’s the real irritation.
Not the remarks. Not the explanations.
But the fact that my name insists on meaning something… even when I would rather just be left alone to exist without commentary.

I tried to become faceless but picked a mask that still breathes, while I secretly love my name.

I will put the kettle on.