How do you reclaim yourself when the day claims you

Most days, I forget me. I slip quietly out of the back door of routine and drudgery. The milk boils, the emails await answers, the laundry needs to be folded and put away. Someone is ill and needs all my attention. Traffic eats up more of my life than I would like. The tedium of conversations that oil the social wheel where my mind is always elsewhere, and my body is wondering at what point would it be polite to get up and leave.
Most days I forget who I was before all the to do lists for the day, the medicine boxes to be filled, the groceries to be stocked, the day’s menu to be organised, the clock ticking an unceasing, unforgiving rhythm that seeps into my bones and ossifies my ability to fly unfettered.
But then, suddenly, there’s a splash of late afternoon sun through the window of the car, there’s the fresh scent of rain on earth, there’s a child laughing on the street, holding his mother’s hand, and I remember who I am, who I was. I return. Only to forget myself again.
I find myself only to forget myself in the hum drum of the day to day. The quiet knowing, this is who I am, I am more than these roles that have been slapped onto me, the responsibilities that I must fulfill, I am more than the unstocked kitchen, or the unanswered email, the laundry waiting to be sorted. I am what I dream, the me that no one sees, no one watches, no one knows and no one is interested in. I must feed her, the hidden me. Beautiful songs. Books that make her wonder. Movies that brings tears to her eyes and laughter to her lips. A poem that makes her gasp. A sliver of precious solitude, snatched from the chaos of the day. A moment of quiet rebellion where she does exactly what she feels like doing. I must whisper to her, the me I keep forgetting, that I remember her and I will never forget who she is.
And I know, she is still there. In me. Waiting. Biding her time. Waiting for me to pay heed to her.

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