Swiped Away

My eyes have seen more women in one hour than the average man in 1925 could see in his entire lifetime. 400 swipes, yet not a single worthy conversation or click. Not a single feeling of butterflies with any person. Not a single nervous chuckle as I could see the other person typing a message. Not a single moment of happiness; just a sad, lonely silence.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

There’s always a flaw. The system is run on an algorithm that studies how good versus how bad people are at hiding them. The younger folks with a natural beauty and sleek appearance have got down what it takes to showcase their looks, usually leaving their bio and interest open to the nit-picky eyes of the beholder.

Those who don’t match up to the previous batch of folks according to public views and their own insecurities, have to play to their strengths with dark humour, unnecessarily over-sexualised cover photos, intensely pondered and structured bios, and so on.

But there is always a flaw. After swiping left on the 400th girl, I found myself heaving a sigh of exhaustion. My eyes have seen more women in one hour than the average man in 1925 could see in his entire lifetime. 400 swipes, yet not a single worthy conversation or click. Not a single feeling of butterflies with any person. Not a single nervous chuckle as I could see the other person typing a message. Not a single moment of happiness; just a sad, lonely silence.

The very reason why online dating in my opinion will always fail is because we have been duped into believing the lie that we can assess the entire sexual, emotional and psychological worth of a person in under 2 minutes of reading their bio and breezing through their carefully selected choice of profile pictures. How could I have ever thought that I could find a meaningful relationship on a platform that ranks people by beauty?

I want to look someone in the eye and watch their eyes light up when they talk about their favourite memory. I want to learn about the topics that make the skin on the side of their eyes crease, as they break into a passionate grin. I want to watch the way they address the waiter when he or she comes to take their order. I want to ask them about their relationship with their mother and the extent of their bond with their father and gauge how their facial features emote their story in their own subtle way. I want to chuckle in amusement as we argue about who is going to pay the bill until we settle on conceding with the promise that the other will take care of the next meal. I want to feel my heart beating like a dinner gong as I ponder what form of emotional touch would be appropriate to say goodbye, based on the context of the meal and the flow of events until that point.

Instead, I settle for an over stimulus of glamour and attention-seeking folks that only show others what they want them to see, aided by the limitations of a tech platform, swiping past an endless series of bandied terms such as ‘Scorpio’, ‘Bibliophile’, ‘Foodie’, ‘Wanderlust’, etc.

I don’t want to be another person you swiped left on. I don’t want to become another statistic that drives Bumble and Tinder’s analytics team to rank me amongst others who were unfortunate enough to embark on a journey surrounded by vain sea sirens. I don’t want to lie in my bed at night wondering if I would wake up to another morning of empty messages, on an app that constantly reminds you to pay to connect more. I don’t want to look at the photo of those whom I do not find attractive and subject them to the same disinterest that I am certain is being doled out in equal measure to me as well.

I don’t want to swipe anymore.