Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

– The Bard

Everything. Almost everything has a name. A name to peg it to, a name to exalt, a name to tarnish, a name to remember, a name to forget. Strange, since there are so many of them. Why?

Since there are so many of them names overlap. The rose in the vase of your table is also as much called a rose as the thousands growing wildly in some soft hued valley. The name chases the roses back to the carnation, or on a lovers lip. When lovers make love in a bed of roses, red and unsullied, is it’s the name that is crushed or the rose?

“Nature and signature never change” – The Bacchant

Shakespeare is wrong! Why does a monkey want to be man, why does a poor want to be rich, why does the stupid want to be happy, why does Celal want to be Galip? Why then?

“If we touched it with the tip of a finger, it would feel like something between iron and copper. If we took it into our palm, it would burn. If we tasted it, it would be full-bodied, like salted meat. If we took it between our lips, it would fill our mouths. If we smelled it, it’d have the scent of a horse. If it were a flower, it would smell like a daisy, not a red rose.”

– The Bandit.

The name is a name; it is not its meaning. As the thinker says, the letters of our names are engraved on the lines of our faces, wash it, scrub it, do whatever you want, it never goes. The cloak of inherited uniqueness. Ha!

Only man has names. Strange!

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