Self Reclamation Essay- I

It's a dimly lit auditorium, you're checking your phone every ten minutes to get back home. This is a guest lecture you did not want to attend. A writing pad is passed to you. You scribble your signature next to your name. This is why you are here — to mark your unwilling presence. You pass the pad to the person sitting next to you. And that person makes a sheepish face, scribbling something in the air — you know all too well what it is. It's an earnest gesture to borrow your pen. You smile and offer it.

The next thing you know, the pen has been passed around two rows ahead of you. You are not even on auto-pilot anymore — you're all in your senses, mind and body, looking for your pen. Like a feline who lost its target prey. Your eyes dart across a swarm of people, locked in a silent hunt. And now, it's with someone you don't talk to on a first-name basis. Your leg starts to get restless, as if — if it could — it would sprint and get you your one true victory.

So, the second the seminar ends, you hunt the person who had it last and ask them with 75% awkwardness and 25% righteousness, "Hey, could I have my pen back?"

And that person goes, "Oh! Sorry, I forgot."

You feign a smile, tight and forced — then roll your eyes. The gall?!

Why did I explain something that happens in a fraction of a second with such over-the-top drama? Well, because my afternoon siesta was replaced by this itch in my head. Again, the gall?!

When we can be so possessive, so particular, so persuasive about a pen — why do we give ourselves so easily? Why is our gentleness tossed about? Why is our love, our attention, our acknowledgment taken for granted — as if they belong to the public domain? And why, for the love of God, don't we gallantly run across un-paradasical auditoriums asking for these bits of ourselves back?

Is it because we only keep an account of things that can be described as tangible or seen? But when it comes to these stupid feelings, and being senti and mental, it becomes making a fuss?

Maybe it's easier to count what fits inside a pocket than what seeps into the cracks of people. Maybe no one ever told us that our warmth is not an infinite resource. That kindness, once spent, leaves a debt. That even the softest parts of us need a ledger.

But I wonder — what if we kept count of how many times we've smiled through the sting of being forgotten? What if we traced every little crack where our goodness slipped away without so much as a thank you? What if we did chase people down in broad daylight and ask —

"Hey, could I have myself back?"

Would they blink sheepishly and say,

"Oh! Sorry, I forgot."

Would they even remember they had it?

If they did, would they hold it like something precious — something they were never meant to pocket in the first place? If they didn't, would they at least offer an apology that felt like more than air?

And if they simply walked away, would we let ourselves believe that what was lost wasn't worth reclaiming?

Hm, maybe that's a recipe for another day, another post.