Within these four walls of my bathroom, it was the only place on earth where I can truly be myself, without the self-consciousness asphyxiating me – it was as if the water that trickles from the showerhead was an agonising acid perforating layer by layer of my body straight to my core. And there, this core, a core so mutilated beyond recognition it deserves no further mention, was exposed.
But I was happy. I was free from all the pretences, from trying to please others, from trying to live up to extraordinarily high expectations. And I came to treasure these 10-15 minutes of private moments, where I can sing as croakily as I wanted, where I can say all the outrageous things that have never escaped this core.
That’s where my id surfaced too, my superego speaking all these lavish English accents when I had no one to turn to, and my ego – it was like an ant between two elephants.
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» Haruki Murakami - The Wind-up Bird Chronicle