π

Pi.

3.14.

3.1459.

3.14159265358979.

3.14159265358979323846264338327…

Alas, despite my best efforts, even I must fall into the same trap. The pain of Pi is apparent to me, and yet the constraints of my human mind still fail me. 

Not only is its name, the very words of its being, changed to suit the conveniences and palate of others, but so too is that what makes it up not unique to it. The number three, oh how I loathe it. That it might determine Pi’s determination is not just arrogant but self righteous. The irony of it permanently affixing itself to my being through the light of Kullat Nunu shining on my birth is not lost on me, but that is just more of fate’s spit across my face.

My pain may pale in comparison, but to live with an identity fractured is one I know. To be cursed with a name you despise but can’t help but see as an integral part of yourself.

Bartholomew. 

You laugh? I cannot tell for certain through these pages, but I also can’t help but assume a measure of amusement or incredulity passed into your thoughts. It is a common reaction that I am faced with, one I am used to receiving, and yet I will still hate you for it. You’ll laugh, snicker, and chortle as the word dawns on you. Mayhaps you’ll offer some form of condolence, and maybe you’ll even attempt to project your own pathetic feelings onto me, hoping to build a bond of parental misgivings upon the metaphorical carcass of a name. You’ll call me Bart, Bert, Bob, Bo, or Bartie and offer it to me like a favor. Hushed words assuring of your silence and secrecy, a grin hoping to be shared, and those eyes crinkled in a guise of sympathy.

It makes me want to claw the tongue out from your mouth.

It makes me want to gouge the drum of your voice from my ears.

But I will do none of that. My wants, my desires, and my wishes are nothing. I have no more power than a piece of Pi.