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My mother named me Karma.
She said I was living proof that what goes around truly did come back around: that I symbolised all that was right in a world of wrong. But in this last year I've grown to hate my name. Not because of my mother but because of what my name now stands for.
And that's something I'd rather not invest in.
But lately, things I'd rather forget are returning to me.
Sounds, names, faces, people.
And it seems that the meaning of my name is catching up on me.