Dana is me. Because I have a pair of blue eyes and sometimes those eyes laugh, because I don't wear high heels and sometimes I walk barefooted, because I talk to people and sometimes I sing, I can sustain that I exist.
Those two words sound so empty and incomplete: "I am". Let's imagine what it would be like if we added a name: "I am Dana". This sentence becomes complete. One word, one name, becomes one existence or... my existence: Dana is me.
"Who are you?" I hear this question over and over again. I look around in the street: so many people, so many strangers. Who is this girl passing by? Or that man wearing a brown coat too large for his build? I walk further and further and I don't recognise anyone in the street. They don't know me. I don't know them. "Who are they?" Behind two questions life stays well hidden.
When my eyes no longer laugh, when I no longer walk in the street nor run, when I am silent, my steps are heard no more. My eyes will close and somebody will say: "Who was she?"
"I am" becomes inevitably 'I was" while high heels live longer and smiles still appear from time to time on peoples' faces.