The Art Of Staying Home

CELENE SAKURAKO falls out of love with the nightlife and finds a new version of herself inside the four walls of her room

- Karla Espiritu

Anyone who knows me well or who watches my Instagram stories knows that I get around. In the two years that I’ve been in Manila since moving out of Tokyo, I’ve gained a reputation for being pretty much everywhere. Art openings, gigs, parties, collection launches—you name it, I’ve probably been there, Instagrammed that. It’s not uncommon for people to come up to me and tell me they’ve seen me here and there.

Truth is, work aside, I used to go out probably at least five times a week, and attend two, three, or sometimes more happenings in just one night. And I never really questioned it. Born and bred in the city, I’ve always been accustomed to being out and about. If you asked me if it was tiring, I’d quickly refute the question with a resounding “no.” It’s just always how it’s been for me.

That is, until recently. Triggered by a traumatic breakup, I found myself going out less and staying at home more. I went from going out five times a week, to thrice, to twice, to once a week. The four far-too-familiar walls of my room where I’d come home every night for the past two years suddenly seemed cold. The space where I found solace after a full night of being out had somehow gone from friend to stranger. The queen-sized bed I would crash into, party after party, no longer seemed as welcoming as it used to be. My room abruptly felt different. It was as if it had become stagnant and lifeless. When I stopped going out, it was as if everything else also froze in time.