Saturday, January 27, 2018

Reality versus fiction

Dear future hubster,

I am looking forward to hear you talking about your passions. I want you to tell me about what drives you, what makes you think, what puts you into that mighty state of mind called flow. I will be all ears and I promise, I will also tell you about my passions. You will hear me talking about theatre, literature, and the unclear boundaries between reality and fiction. I will tell you why I think that what we perceive as reality is just a narrative we make up in our quest to make sense of the world with plots, characters, heroes and villains in it.
            Let me tell you a story. The other day I lent a friend North Morgan’s ’Love Notes To Men Who Don’t Read’. My friend started to read the book, and he told me that he and the writer are now following each other on Instagram. We joked and laughed about it. Then I put pen to paper and jotted down a paragraph tricking my friend into believing that it is an excerpt from Morgan’s next book, and he will be in it. Books and our lives, reality and fiction – they are all entangled, don’t you think dear future hubster?


Three rounds of twelve reps, both arms. I keep looking at the bulging biceps of my left arm each time I lift the dumbbell. I keep counting down - eleven, ten, nine. What the fuck am I doing here, yet again on a Sunday afternoon still hungover from last night, with the taste of Tim’s cock still in my mouth, I wonder. Eight, seven, six. What a great body he has, a picture-perfect six-pack, and oh my god, that pair of blue eyes. Five, four, three. I wanted him to stay over, just to cuddle a bit after sex, fall asleep together, that pathetic romantic side of me gaining the upper hand again. He could not, he said. He did not feel comfortable spending a night in a stranger’s bed, though I do not understand why he would refer to me as a stranger. We knew each other’s first names, exchanged compliments about our bodies on Grindr, and had already talked at least three times in the gym. True, our main topics of conversation were training programmes, proteins and the upcoming concert of Lady Gaga, but we talked, and we were bonding. I could feel it. Two, one, dumbbell drops on the floor.
            My phone blinks – a notification. It must be horrible to be my phone with no moment of respite, witnessing an endless row of messages, photos and texts coming and going. I reach to it, I swipe to unlock the screen. A new follower on Instagram. I love Instagram – a picture is worth a thousand words, especially if it is about a naked torso and especially if the sender is not a man of words.
This time it is not a torso, but a handsome face – robxl. I check him out, he has a beard, a sparkling look and a great body. I follow back, it can do no harm, especially on a day like this. He sends a message, says that he likes my book. I feel flattered. If only he knew how fucked up I was, still am, and how taking up writing was actually part of my therapy. Thank you, I reply back. I check out more of his photos. Swipe, swipe, swipe. He has been to Asia recently, a globetrotter he must be. I ask where he is from. Albania, he says. I first think that he has made a typo and that he is from Albany, New York. Then I am not sure, so I look again and search on Google maps. He is European, and European reminds me of my roots. I almost become emotional. Stop it.
I put down my phone, take a sip of water. Dumbbell in the right hand, twelve reps to go. I do not even notice that I have forgotten about Tim, at least for two minutes.

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