As Allan stood watching over the city bathed in morning light, he reflected upon something that had been on his mind of late. It was the concept, or rather the delusion, of being in love. He’d oscillated between both poles of the emotion before: from the top of cloud nine, where all the world was wonderful, to the depths of hatred, where everything burned molten.
The women he’d fallen in love with had always fallen definitively under the archetype of stronger and more independent females, whom he’d come to respect for their ability to do things. Invariably, these were also the same women who caused him the most grief, for their general inability to perceive his perspective of things. He could always understand their perspective, and despite wavering between being empathetic and uncaring, he held respect for it, because they were human like him.
The issue was, their actions towards him always felt as though they were somehow blind and deaf to his situation and circumstances. Perhaps it was this contrived notion that men did not feel as emotively as women, or that men were stronger and due less consideration in society. Whatever the case was, he didn’t appreciate the disparity, though he was forced to accept it as an unchangeable facet of existence.
Though he had sometimes thought these women to be despicable, it was only in the throes of frustration and anger that such sentiments became manifest. To be fair, he wasn’t sure whether the women he found himself attracted to were either good or bad. Those moments when he thought they were the latter, misguided souls fated to a different sort of delusion and misery in life, he wondered what that meant about his soul. Was he too misguided, as delusional as they were? Was his likeness to them the reason he was so attracted?
Or was it that he was so unlike them in his perception of things, that he found their viewpoint complementary? It wasn’t clear to him whether likes attracted or differences attracted when it came to the game of love. It probably didn’t matter. Allan didn’t think he had any right to judge either himself, nor these women. They each had their own path in life, which they walked to the best of their ability.
Allan shook his head and sighed. In the end, he was simply tired; tired of his crusade, and of other people. Tired of this life, this existence, and these problems. Tired of human society and this Earth, but not of this universe. Despite his exhaustion, he held on for dear life, because his survival instinct and will to struggle were the strongest traits about him.
Because he held on in this way, his tiredness yielded to another, much sweeter emotion. Love for the beauty of this universe, and the fairness of this existence. Love for God, who bestowed upon him such traits of strength as to enable him to endure, and survive. Love for himself, who struggled to the best of his ability, despite all setbacks and obstacles.
Indeed, Allah was over all things wise, the most merciful, and the most kind.