It is strange how the toilet is a liminal space for many of us. Ok. Maybe not that strange after all.

We head to the toilet to clear our minds after a very long discussion.
We visit the toilet when we find ourselves staring at the other party in awkward silence.
We release our emotions there in private.
For some of us, we go there to catch 40 winks.
Then there are times whereby we go there to think.


Recently, I found myself more aware of the thoughts I have in the toilet. Film techniques come into mind. People I miss pop into my head and I think of the conversations I may have with them, if only they were around.

Yesterday, while I was getting ready to shower, I had this great idea for an Arts House film, but the moment I sat at my table with a pen in hand... the thought slipped away.

Perhaps the next time I need some inspiration, I should go to the toilet with a notebook and pen. Perhaps.

***

It is the eve of Christmas eve.

But why does my heart feel so heavy?

Friends in London are stuck there. Manchester friends are not coming home this festive season....

It is so quiet without them around. So quiet that I actually miss bickering with them. The nonsensical messages we send in the middle of the night. Staying up together to make gifts or write cards. Guess subliminally it became a tradition and not doing all these things together this year just made the silence a little too deafening for my liking.

Nonetheless, I MISS ALL OF YOU! COME HOME SOON! (hope i don’t sound too desperate. *claws* Haha)

***


Bought a new book. Finished it within 2 days. I love how books sucks me into their world. All the adjectives used to describe the wood, the japan air, the smell of snow, the cold air, the protagonist’s soft hair. Those two days, I abstained (haha) from the computer. Just sat on my bed and read till I fell asleep. While waiting for friends, I read. Waiting for the train on the platform, I whipped out my book. And I felt so distant and different from the world.

Everybody was holding on their iphone-messaging, calling, surfing, fiddling, well, you know... And I love that feeling of going back to our “roots” if I could call that that.

I particularly love this phrase:
“clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast...with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones”
Beautiful. :)