By: Dina S. 7C

Wouldn't it be utter perfection if everything we enjoy would be there for us, playing on repeat our entire lives? My pet pleasures give me a sense of satisfaction, the fact that walking in the blazing hot sand makes me happy, that hearing the pitter patter of rain on my umbrella makes me forget about the realities of life. That lackadaisical life filled with the bluntness of expectations and standards can be gone in an instant when a memory of catching snowflakes in my gloved hand is recalled. Yet, while these things don't define who I am, it makes me wonder, what about them makes me me?

When people ask me who I am, I always have a mental list ready of all my character traits. But in retrospect to the happenings of my life, I realized that my identity and who I am are different. My identity is how I respond to things, my instincts, my friendliness. Who I am however, is what makes me crazed with excitement at the mere thought. I enjoy trekking through mounds of tiny grains of sand that have been baking in the sun all day. The sand that rides up and down as I slowly plunder through it is a representation of my patience. People often ask me for help if they need something or advice to fix their problem (yes, I am the therapist of my friend group). I get annoyed because it is overwhelming to listen to them complain about their issues. However, I will always try to be of aid because I'm a caring person, no matter how frustrated I can get.

I often walk in the rain because I find it to be enjoyable. The consistent sound of droplets hitting my umbrella, as they slowly splat into a tiny puddle. It always reminded me of my mood. I could have a nice, calm day, and then suddenly, it can turn into something unexpected, like the ascending speed of the fall of the rain, or sometimes, even a thunderstorm. The increase and decline of rain accurately expresses how I act. I can completely change how I feel in a short amount of time, just like how there could be pouring rain for fifteen minutes, and then it halts to a stop. Strangely, I feel like I can relate to rain. It is very perplexing because it is only puffy, almost blinding white clouds precipitating, but I think of it as a metaphor.

Every year, I go to Pennsylvania for winter break. I stand in the open field while it is snowing, and let the flakes fall into my outstretched hand. It is disappointing when they melt as soon as they reach the surface of my glove. I haven't had enough time to gaze at the intricate patterns that are carved into the thin layer of snow. This shows how I interpret nostalgia. I can be wondrously thinking back to a glorious time in my life, but the memory comes to an end. I feel sad because the memory is never long enough. Yet, before I can ponder upon it and try to bring it back, another event in my life begins to occur. I can be deeply immersed in something, and in the blink of an eye, it disappears.

In culmination, I take what I enjoy and turn it into a metaphor of how it reflects who I am. Finding out about myself was not an easy task. But what I find happiness in helped me realize how ordinary things have made me the person I see while looking into the mirror. My pet pleasures assist me in unveiling my true character more than I could ever imagine.