I have come to the realization that I, Hend–or Jess, or Jenna, or whatever other non de plume I’ve dubbed unrightfully my own–Salah, being of unsound mind and mildly tarnished moral compass, am a tease.
Not a romantic tease. Or, not usually a romantic tease. Or, perhaps almost always a romantic tease.
The attempted message here is, I have very little attachment to anything or anyone, but allow others to get attached to me knowing extremely well that every friendship, every romantic relationship, every missed-and-found connection with other human beings, has an expiration date.
I allow people to get close to me, offer the greatest form of friendship and support and make them believe that I am truly and wholeheartedly “all in.”
That doesn’t apply to my work. I can stick to the same job forever, granted that I am doing what I love: writing. I hang on to work for dear life, mainly because the only time I feel a true, deep happiness is when I put pen to paper, or rather, fingers to keyboard.
People bore me. They’re unchanging. Always the same. Always harping on about the same problems, same situations, same self-proclaimed hardships. I start out as a sincere, everlasting loyal friend, and then, through no fault that I consider to be my own, I slowly lose interest.
But all of those things are what make them normal human beings, leaving me to be a detached, pseudo-supportive and emotionally unavailable block of ice. It scares the hell out of my mother.
She’s dying to marry me off, you see.
But I think, nay believe, that I am meant to be alone with my keyboard and my interviewees and my biting reviews of the world.
And I feel terrible that I don’t feel terrible at all.
At least I’m not crazy.