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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