- in the name of Allah -



For most of my life, I had taken comfort in the notion that what was meant to be was meant to be, and what wasn't, was just an illusion the soul gravitated toward as a result of its own nature. As of late, this comfort no longer exists. 

Humanity is such a fragile species, perhaps the most fragile of all in existence. Changing with the passage of seasons, responding with severe bias to heat or cold, needing to maintain not only a relatively stable ecosystem but also needing to cultivate internally-accepted notions of morality or causality, so that the wheels of the mind do not spin out of perceived control. It is likely, as one philosopher once put it, that religion plays a major part in this construct, in keeping the veneer of the human condition standing, by acting in some ways as an "opiate for the masses". Religion gives people hope when times appear bleak, shows them a path for redemption when guilt overcomes them, makes promises to them when the future seems uncertain. For much of my life I partook of this medicine, not out of fear or need, but because it aligned with my soul. My heart was with my religion, seeking the same things it did and responding as it would have. Then, life threw me a curveball, a pitch I never saw coming, never understood until I swung at it and missed so completely, I was left utterly bewildered. It was after that moment I began to fathom the true frailty of being human, of how completely one's hope can be self-consuming, that if left unfulfilled, it shatters the meaning of every neighboring constellation in a person's galaxy. If religion promised the objective of one's soul as reward for its acceptance, I never quite found it. And if that was never found, then what meaning was there left with religion? Did it wish for me to once again place within it my hope, leaving to chance what may become of whatever remained of myself? Incredible, and likely, impossible. An investment was once made, with basically 100% of available capital. Everything was lost from that investment, the goal and the hopes accompanying it. Some notions of consolation would have me recall some gibberish about things meant to be, or, about some good delayed or ill averted. How useful are these notions when one has nothing left to invest in them? How much meaning can they possibly have? The pain is not erased, the totality of what happened remains vivid, how then can such delusional thoughts be given any credence? 

It is distinctly possible that this ordeal may serve as proof against me as I am judged. Ironic, isn't it? The ones who live and the ones who suffer should furnish the court with their own blood and tears the very evidences used in their conviction. If that is not cosmic irony, I don't know what is. To be created only to be destroyed over and over a thousand times till infinity. To be given from fountains of ambition or  desire only to be instructed on living as ascetics. When will these ironies end, the cyclic tragedies of being human ever cease?