"You really like your name, don't you?" asked the guy beside me in class. I was about to say "Huh?" when I saw the intermediate pad under my hand -- apparently, without realizing, I had written my name so many times in different styles and scripts. The blank spaces of my old lecture notes were also filled with my name.
That time I picked up a pop-psychology book on how to tell things about people from their clothes, houses, favorite colors or food, etc. There was a section on "what your doodling style says about you" and it said that writing one's name all over again shows that you're trying to "assert a sense of self".
Ever felt that you're not in your own body? Its been a constant feeling for me. I interact with this body, with this name, but I feel like my consciousness as an invisible eye above watching what this body does. I've always been wary about having my picture taken or even looking at the mirror sometimes. I've never been familiar with my own face. Writing my name, was my way of telling myself: this is you. You are here now. But where am I? The invisible eye or the person typing here?
This is why I'm absent-minded and spaced out at times.
- - -
I'm rereading a book where there was an old man who said I don't want to say my name. I don't want anyone talking about me, to say where I was and what I said when I was there. I mean, you can talk about me, maybe. But no one could say it was me. (The Road)