ringing in my ears

When this writing is complete, I will pick up the phone. I can’t really tell my friends. Every time that I do they listen too carefully. They don’t listen to what I want to say but what they think I really want (and maybe I do, I’m not certain about anything). I mean, what do we have in common? A country that I’ve never seen and don’t really know? Religion. It is religion, or so they will tell me. But what if I don’t know where I’m at now? What if I am really not too sure about marriage or relationships? What if I don’t want to start something that I won’t finish? I can’t call my friends and complain because they won’t really listen. I can’t call my friends and tell them because I won’t giggle and be friendly.

When I am done writing this, I’ll just have to call. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to talk about this and I don’t want to write about it and I don’t really want to live this. I don’t know what I want. The truth of everything is that I don’t know what I want and I don’t really believe in all this crap. The basis of everything is that I don’t know who I am and what I want. I am lost.

When I am done writing this, I’ll finally call back. I want to tell my friends that he is desperate. I want to tell them that I can’t even remember what he looked like. I want to say that he is stupid for even trying. Weren’t my mannerisms clear enough? When someone doesn’t answer three times in a row, isn’t that reason enough to stop?

When I am done writing this, I’ll give in and have a stupid awkward conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to or try to impress. I don’t even think communication is possible, but I will try. I don’t like playing games, and this only seems like a game. I don’t like pretending, but it seems like pretending. I feel like my heart is under pressure, like my head is in overload. I don’t know.

When I finish complaining, I’ll call. I will pick up the phone and dial the number. I will spend a few minutes in a conversation I don’t want to have. Maybe I do. I don’t know what I want. I guess I don’t want to be alone.

When I stop typing, I’ll dial the number. Last night I realized that I’m the last of my crew. I truly realized it. I wanted to leave the party, I wanted to sit down instead of dance. I walk away when someone says “Uqbal farhatik” (my translated meaning: hope you get married next) or tries to talk about weddings and engagements. I don’t want to be forty and unmarried. It’s not fun to get old and have no one. I don’t think I want to be twenty-five and married either. It’s not fun to be responsible for others. I don’t know what I want. I miss being able to call up my friends and go out at the drop of a dime. I miss random lunches and being able to go to the movies whenever we wanted.

When I convince myself in writing, I will pick up the phone. Maybe my fear is kids. I expect to have them; I’m not convinced I want them. When they were married, they could still go out. When they had kids, life was over. Not for that reason alone, though it is a good one, I fear kids. When my friends complain of marriage and their husbands (or wives sometimes), I wonder if it really is worth it. When I have to make breakfast, I think “Is it worth it?” When I see them laugh at each other, I think, “Maybe it’s worth it.” When I remember that feeling in my tummy, the butterflies, and the lightheadedness, the dizzy sensation, I know it must be worth it. But when I have to try so hard, I think it is not.

I’m going to call. I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want. I hate this part of everything. I don’t even want to write this. I definitely don’t want to post it. I have written it and I will post it. I have to make it real. I have to legitimize my writing. I have to give my fingers some purpose. I have to smile and pretend. I have to write and be real. Now that I feel drained of all emotion, I will call. What do I have to lose?

I am calling.