In English, my name is the dull edge of an unpolished blade. It is mundane, like a smooth rock. In any other language, it is exactly the same. Like the covering of a vibrant autumn with a layer of white snow, it is contrasted only by the murky black pavement peeking through.

My name says I was born to a man with gray hair, and that’s not wrong. It also says he’s a wise elder, or an aristocrat, but that’s not true.  To me, he is a trusty car. One that’s not perfect and a little beaten up, but warm and familiar nonetheless. You know it’ll take you where you want to go. I almost took his title; alas I am not my father. I am Grayson, even if it doesn’t seem like it.  

Behind my monochromatic label, is a greatly colored personality. You wouldn’t know it, not without knowing me. Sort of how a blank canvas seems boring until painted. Only the paint is my character. Different people see different portraits: to some, Grayson means lighthearted and comical. No matter how serious a situation, there’s a joke to made about it.  To others, Grayson means the number 14: precise, simple, and calculated.

If it were me, I’d have a new name.  One that tells people about who I really am, before they even know me. Like how I thrive on adrenaline, or am open to any challenge.  I’d be Gunner, Giovanni, Guthrie, or Govan. Something other than a typical name like Michael or Jacob. People don’t judge you by your name anyways, since you didn’t make it. It might as well be catchy.  Anything unique or attention grabbing will do.

The trouble with picking a name that represents the best parts of yourself is, you never know what those parts are. Perhaps a name should be something to live up to instead. So long as you strive to reach it, missing the goal will only put you beyond it.