BREATH WORK
Ever since I started going out and allowing myself the space to become the club rat I know myself to be — in my heart of hearts — I’ve grown strangely fond of club bathrooms. And it’s not for the compliments from wasted or heartbroken girls, or the invitations to partake in substances from charming strangers — although I love both.
No, my fondness comes from the curatorship that occurs on the walls, the toilet seats, and the flimsy doors of said club bathrooms.
Poopin’ poets lay out the most devastatingly beautiful sonnets in permanent marker during their moment of rest, only to forget they ever wrote such a thing when they return the following weekend. Love notes, stickers, call-outs, and numbers promising a “good time” — all assembled in a visual heap, barely illuminated in these dingy loos — captivate me and calm me when I’m on the brink of losing myself.
Too many drinks, a mystery powder, seeing my ex–best friend — any of these things could’ve brought me to this stall. But the fodder left behind by other club-goers re-centers me, grounds me, and reminds me that they, too, sought sanctuary here. The word “VACANT” plastered on the lock lets me know they made it out of this club. I’m going to be fine.
Sometimes, I find myself in the bathroom just to catch my breath. The smoking has taken a toll on my lungs — but I won’t quit. Socialising in Narrm is much easier with a cigarette.
When I start to dance, I’m back in my bedroom. I’m floating from one place to another — guided by free-flowing movement and zero inhibitions. The speakers may be saying one thing, but all I can hear is my own playlist — my favourite songs — serendipitously matching the BPM of the local DJ’s set.
-- Luckk