"The everyday space occupied by women, that daily living space by its virtue is considered ordinary. But that everyday space is far from being ordinary.
For women, certain parts of their daily life are tedious, terrifying, and horrible. They feel that their daily life is oppressing, exploiting, and isolating. It is not certain what is the very thing that makes them feel this way; nevertheless, they feel it instinctively. There are times when they want to reject, avoid, and ignore that very situation. And they did. No, for too long they have endured; for too long they have tolerated; for too long they have forgiven. But one day… She could not endure anymore and attempted an escape. Just for an instant, faraway, in the abyss… And she chooses space and time that belongs only to her. That chosen space and time is the “Space and Time of Mad Women.” That space and time is transformed into “image space,” barring anyone from entering. There she feels warm, soft, snug, and secluded. She is immersed in the situation. She has absolutely no desire to wake up. There numerous layers of memories are stacked up and numerous stories entangled. The memories and stories are at once sad and beautiful. There she stays for a brief…no, for a long moment.
Why are you doing this? What are you doing? Are you crazy? You are mad, aren’t you? Everyone is at a loss. Yes. She is crying silently, bearing deep in her heart the layers of memories and entangled stories. As she strikes down at the fish on the cutting board, as she sits on the bed next to window with dripping sunlight, as she gazes at herself in the mirror, as she waters the plants, as she drenches herself with water in the shower, for a moment the women are locked in that situation. IT IS COMFORTING. An instant, a moment, that situation. Spurred by that space and time, the woman becomes one with That Space. That Time. Unknowingly.
I snatch away all those things that lead to madness. Because the women who went mad about the situation is “I” and “We”… At that instant, the numerous layers of memories stacked in that space and time, the layers of stories, the very “stories of the memories” are staring back at us now."