I Am, I Am, I Am

I am

Mandy.

Female, dirty blonde hair, blue-green eyes.

Can play soccer. Can play a guitar. Can play cute.

I am

Happy.

Upbeat like kids dancing around a gift, coruscant like the sun at its peak, warm like fuzzy socks on feet.

Can give laughter. Can give smiles. Can give anything.

I am

Sad.

Hunched over like Dracula hiding in his cape, dark like a cloudy day, cold like air that freezes nose hairs.

Can play misery. Can give sorry. Can feel nothing … and everything.

I am, I am, I am.

I

Am

Mandy.

I have—

Things. Possessions. Materials.

And I have—

Happiness, Sadness, Anger, Fear, Faith, Peace, Stress, Guilt, Worry, Shame, Excitement.

Am I these things inside? The possessions that animate my body—that make my face lift high, lips stretch wide, or bend down lips in a frown? The materials that enliven my soul?

Do they make me … me? Or are they paints and oils and brushes, and am I the painter or the canvas?

I am Mandy.

I have happy. I have sad.

I am. I have.