Real Estate

As I mentioned, I have a whole blog entry stuck in Drafts. In it, I attempt to share more about what prompted me to quit my full-time job, isolate myself to a 10-day Meditation course, and finally, return to my body. There’s something about the entry’s confessional voice that I feel requires a second pair of eyes and maybe, more time. While I’m letting that simmer, here’s what I’ve been up to: With the exception of a couple of meetings each week and my part-time work, I've not been up to very much. I’ve been catching up on television shows and watching movies I’ve missed in the past year. Mostly, I’ve been a hermit, writing and enjoying what I have: A studio with my art, books, and knick-knacks.

When I returned from traveling and after recovering from that bug going around, I randomly plucked Deborah Levy’s autobiography, Real Estate from one of my bookshelves a few weeks ago and finished it earlier today, before the sun went down. It was comforting to read that sometime, somewhere, a woman in her sixties was also searching for a property or home to call her own. In Real Estate, the chapters are named after the city or country she is living in or visiting. The one set in Paris, struck an amorous chord in my being. If you've known me a while, you would have heard me talk about trying to live there. Or anywhere in France. I'm manifesting this.

I’ve been living in Singapore for about 12 years now. That’s a long fucking time. This past year that coincided with my year working corporate, was also the first time since university, that I've lived on my own. The simple fact of being in my studio, I am overcome with tingling joy. In Filipino, we call it kilig. It's a word reserved for that lovey feeling when you're thinking about a crush or a beloved (or sometimes even witnessing love in action like when you see an old couple holding hands, or when you watch a rom-com). I’ve found this new context for it. I look around my studio and I feel kilig. An immeasurable delight.

It might seem insignificant to you. Not, for me. I grew up occupying a very small space. Even the room I rented during the pandemic (which I adored), was a claustrophobe’s nightmare. It's not only because I’m physically small, but when I was stuck on self-limiting beliefs, I never imagined I could have an expansive and magical place to live. Now that I have this studio—which can fit a queen-sized bed, side tables on either side, plus a desk, a swivel chair, a two-seater dining area, shelves of various sizes, floor space for yoga, a kitchenette, as well as a separate storage room and a bathroom that I like to point out can comfortably fit up to five people—and plenty of time on my hands, I've been able to quietly celebrate.

This feeling of being at home. Feeling safe. Feeling nourished, whether through cooking and feeding myself, meditation, or sleep. Even the giddiness when a friend visits and appreciates it too, makes it worth every cent. It costs around $2 an hour or 3 cents per minute, which is not too bad considering the neighborhood. It has been unavoidable that apocalyptic thoughts come (especially in this globally tense political climate and warming planet and because I watched Civil War, the film directed by Alex Garland last night), but while I have this, I’m going to savor every sparkling moment in it.

"None of this real estate belonged to me, but I felt I belonged in it."
— Deborah Levy, Real Estate.

Real Estate is the third and final installment in author, Deborah Levy's Living Autobiography series, which inspired this post.