Diary of a Boy: Tokyo Story

In April of 2024, I briefly departed my home country of Singapore for about nine days, bound for the city of Tokyo. I planned my itinerary to spend the entirety of my trip in the capital city. The weeks leading up to it had been quite rough for me. I spent time alone, in solitude. Unconsented solitude. A lot of my days were groaning, sulking, and procrastinating alone in bed. I fell sick, mentally and physically. I caught the flu multiple times and on top of that, I was also observing Ramadan. On top of that, I had to deal with my own serious personal matters that dragged on for weeks. On top of that, I had to cease two friendships that were quite vital to me for my own reasons. On top of that, my pet died. It’s been a gruelling month. I longed and wished that my trip would come sooner.

And eventually, the day finally came. My flight was exactly four days after Eid. I swiftly and briefly celebrated with my family before I flew off, and within a blink of an eye, I found myself on the streets of Tokyo.

A tiring journey of seven hours on the plane and another two on the bus, I was finally out there, ready for a different experience of loneliness. I faced an entirely new city, cut off from life back home. I carried with me the burden of raw emotions 3,000 miles from Singapore to here. Maybe the cold, cloudy spring wasn't a good choice to accompany these feelings. But new longitude and latitude coordinates also meant new opportunities, new sensations, new emotions. So I came with an open mind. 

I waited for about 20 minutes in the 18C weather outside the streets of Nihombashi, waiting for my friend to pick me up from the bus stop. Her name was Gynne. She has been a close friend of mine for three years now. I gave her a big hug. Gynne would be my only reminder of Singapore, as she was an exchange student studying in one of the huge universities in Chuo City.

“How have you been? How was the flight?” 

“It was fine. I’m just a bit exhausted. I missed you so much.” I said back.

I looked at her like a lost puppy. I gave her another tight hug before we continued on.

We both spent the next thirty minutes mindlessly walking around Nihonbashi trying to find my Airbnb. I lugged my heavy luggage and Gynne came to assist. I found my place after another 15 minutes of wandering around. It was a quiet street, just a short walk from Mitsukoshimae station. The building was unassuming. It matched the monotonous shades of grey that I couldn't discern what was sidewalk, wall, barrier, or load-bearing column if I didn’t have my glasses on. 

I checked-in to a humble and very narrow 10 sqm room. The exterior grey matched the interior grey walls. In contrast, bright orange curtains with windows that had an intricate rose pattern sticker pasted on it. When the sun shined, the colours of red and green would pass through the window and onto the bed. This is the space that I would be occupying alone for the next week. It wasn’t much. But it was mine. It didn’t matter that my accommodations included a shared toilet and shower facilities, or that I could only smoke on the 6th floor balcony. What was most important to me was the space that I occupied. Within these four walls, I could do whatever I want. Gynne allowed me some time alone. Time to reflect and acknowledge that all of this was indeed real.

I couldn’t help but think. What if I had this independent space back home? The fact is, I kind of do. But it was an extension of my parent’s house. Which was not mine. At home, I always felt like I needed to perform. As a man, as a son, as another participant in the family. I didn’t mind it at times. I’m already an only child. I have the privilege of being able to negotiate space within my family. But I always thought it would be excessive if I asked to move out. I could fill my table with trinkets and messily leave my stationery around. I could put up posters and buy books, and CDs without being questioned by my father. I could buy and keep the clothes I want without much resistance or questions on my style of dressing or policing. This fantasy, not too dissimilar from the academic exercises that I've done back at Ngee Ann; self-discovery, self-fulfilling, self-gratifying spaces, is something I could recreate and conceptualise on Sketchup and AutoCAD, and package it nicely on an A3 poster board. 

Yet, the core part here is not just allocating miniature programs into my idealised space or identifying a user persona (me) or figuring out the space norms of my scheme. It is rather the atmosphere. The dust settling every time I draw the curtains or fix my bedsheets. The faded, foul smell of smoke even though there's a sign that says ‘No Smoking’ pasted on the front door. It is the ray of light shining on the rattan stool that I use to prop up my jackets and dirty clothes. 

These are signifiers of control. The control I have of this space. The control that the tenant before me has of this space. That I have the autonomy to do whatever my heart wills to do so. There were no gender performances I had to make for my parents. Nobody to tell me that I couldn’t sleep in my underwear or that I had to wake up in the morning and be ‘productive’. I was kind of fluid in a sense. Gaseous actually. A single particle, alone in this small chamber. Most would feel confined in such a small space, but I found a sense of freedom instead.

It was lawless but I kept my humanity. I didn't need to participate in society but society was just four floors down and within reach. I pondered and wondered why I felt this way. 

Then I realised that it was just part of the experience of being young. I’m 20 years-old, and I’m only now fathoming that my adult years are going to be a lot of this. Lots of solitude. Lots of moments without much hand holding. I would like to think that a regular person would find my place outright depressing, and that vacationing to another country after spending time alone to be more alone; just 3000 miles away would send them on some existential spiral. But for me, especially me, I learnt to appreciate the beauty of being lonely.