Nothing but two dates

Why cling to life if it’s such a hassle?
You have to take care of all the daily necessities
just to keep your body in shape, let alone your boredom-prone mind.
And then there is everything you crave—and often feel entitled to
as a creature of scripture—and what’s expected of you.
But whether you are Anton de Franckenpoint or Richebourg,
or the triumphant general in his quadriga or the auriga whispering in his ear,
you can count on nothing but two dates and perhaps a commemorative inscription
on your tombstone. Why then?

I doubt my parents asked that question that night, but five decades later,
I’m still looking for the answer.

What name do you wear to dinner?

I never liked my name. It sounds wishy-washy, to be honest,
and definitely lacks the solid attitude of Piotr or Janusz.
Even my middle name has more to offer in this regard.
And why do we attach so much importance to the name
in the first place? What’s wrong with changing it like we do
with our hair or clothes? Our bodies, not to mention minds,
also change over time, so why stick with the same name for life?
Maybe tomorrow I will wake up feeling like Aditya or Haruto,
or better yet, Gwendolyn, to express my feminine side.
And why limit ourselves to calendar pages? Don’t we change
out of our morning sweatpants into work clothes, and after
returning home, into something more appropriate for dinner,
finally slipping into our pyjamas at the end of the day?
And if a name is indeed at the core of our personality,
then building it on a foundation that is merely the accidental
whim of our parents on our birthday seems somewhat unwise.
Anyway, right now, I feel like nobody—Mr. Nobody.