This morning, I went on a journey to find my lost phone. It has been missing for one night and I kept wondering where I lost it.
It wasn't in my bag pack; it wasn't hidden in any of its numerous compartments. Nor was it in any pocket of the clothes I've been wearing or the wooden drawers in my room. It simply disappeared.
This phone had went missing before. Not just once but many times. Some friends suggested that each disappearance was due to my carelessness. I prefer to think that my phone has a wild, independent streak and likes to play truant once in a while.
At the beginning of this year, my friends and I were taking jump shots in front of the Buckingham Palace. We were happily hopping about, taking photos of ourselves as we attempted to float. It must have been then that my phone decided to explore London by itself.
For that hour when it was gone, I was a nervous wreck. How do I justify the escape of a good phone? Who do I blame? Could I even find someone to blame?
My friends and I chased my phone all the way to the Tate Modern Museum along the Thames River before we finally retrieved it from a Parisian girl. That silly piece of metal and plastic probably enjoyed its brief adventure swinging in a handbag and being caressed by tender fingers.
So, last night, it decided to disappear again.
It was strange, having no phone and the resultant sense of being wholly unconnected. Strange and strangely liberating.
Perhaps my phone has sensed that I needed some time alone and decided to disappear, to give me the space to think through a labyrinth of thoughts.
Or, more likely, it just wanted to play with other phones in the lost-and-found corner.
I didn't worry about its disappearance, not that much. It has returned, like a pigeon, even after tasting the air of freedom as it cavorted along the streets of London. There wasn't anything to fret about. It has proven itself to be reliable enough to come home.
This morning, I tried to track my phone. I went to two lost-and-found corners in my university, made a report and disturbed the peace of some security staff. Shucks, perhaps my phone has found a partner and decided to elope, shucks.
Back in my room, I lazily tossed my bag pack about. With a dawning embarrassment, I realised that my phone was secured in the strap pocket.
Maybe I should have searched harder for the things I thought I lost. Maybe the things I lost have been around me all the time, not lost but merely hidden.
It wasn't in my bag pack; it wasn't hidden in any of its numerous compartments. Nor was it in any pocket of the clothes I've been wearing or the wooden drawers in my room. It simply disappeared.
This phone had went missing before. Not just once but many times. Some friends suggested that each disappearance was due to my carelessness. I prefer to think that my phone has a wild, independent streak and likes to play truant once in a while.
At the beginning of this year, my friends and I were taking jump shots in front of the Buckingham Palace. We were happily hopping about, taking photos of ourselves as we attempted to float. It must have been then that my phone decided to explore London by itself.
For that hour when it was gone, I was a nervous wreck. How do I justify the escape of a good phone? Who do I blame? Could I even find someone to blame?
My friends and I chased my phone all the way to the Tate Modern Museum along the Thames River before we finally retrieved it from a Parisian girl. That silly piece of metal and plastic probably enjoyed its brief adventure swinging in a handbag and being caressed by tender fingers.
So, last night, it decided to disappear again.
It was strange, having no phone and the resultant sense of being wholly unconnected. Strange and strangely liberating.
Perhaps my phone has sensed that I needed some time alone and decided to disappear, to give me the space to think through a labyrinth of thoughts.
Or, more likely, it just wanted to play with other phones in the lost-and-found corner.
I didn't worry about its disappearance, not that much. It has returned, like a pigeon, even after tasting the air of freedom as it cavorted along the streets of London. There wasn't anything to fret about. It has proven itself to be reliable enough to come home.
This morning, I tried to track my phone. I went to two lost-and-found corners in my university, made a report and disturbed the peace of some security staff. Shucks, perhaps my phone has found a partner and decided to elope, shucks.
Back in my room, I lazily tossed my bag pack about. With a dawning embarrassment, I realised that my phone was secured in the strap pocket.
Maybe I should have searched harder for the things I thought I lost. Maybe the things I lost have been around me all the time, not lost but merely hidden.
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