Do You Feel Stuck?

Does it make sense that respite is not in waking hours but in the fortunate mercy of mini-deaths termed sleep?

"The Scream" by Edvard Munch (1893)

I felt I would have nothing to write after I’d published the five essays prepared in advance of starting this Substack. Fortunately, it has been impossible to ignore this gnawing feeling. This feeling of being stuck has brought me to my keys, seeking release.

I want to know if you agree that adulthood is an ongoing lesson on limitations. I want to know if you feel like we’ve been trapped in a life largely comprised of stress, pain, and disappointment. An existence where joy is fleeting and happiness, a thin veneer scrawled on faces in hopes of convincing selves of its genuineness.

Do you feel the weight of consciousness? Do you regret this gift you never elected to receive? The sour taste of resentment coats my tongue each time I am compelled to sell my body, mind, and finite time to barely get by.

Does it make sense that respite is not in waking hours but in the fortunate mercy of mini-deaths termed sleep?

I don’t know if some people are particularly predisposed to existential thinking because I seem unable to ignore the forces restricting my experience. I wish I could remain oblivious to corrupt politicians, systematic discrimination, conservative morals, dilapidated infrastructure, a myopic populace, and unrelenting tyranny.

Many people seem okay surfing the waves of a sorry everyday life while I get startled by the slightest splash. I wish I could turn off this way of engaging with reality, and turn on one which has no need for fragile mindfulness and questionable abuses that temper my sensitivity to being stuck.

To combat this feeling, I often venture outside the beaten path only to be reminded of why few have wandered there. Each time I return to the status quo, casting aside a piece of me now marred by the stench of failure. These reality checks extinguish the guiding light of my long-held philosophies, replacing them with the dim obedience of conformity.

Just now, I paused my writing to scroll through social media and saw stories from Palestine that brought tears to my eyes. Suffering is part of living, but it’s baffling how dedicated we are to bringing more into a world overflowing with grief. How hard can it be to not chip away at the base of each other’s Maslow’s triangle when there is more than enough for everyone?

“Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth (1948)

I don’t know if this entry reads as cohesive. If this ramble captures the dissatisfaction that continually leaches the innocence from my childhood. Have you also had to discard beliefs to this point where carving new ones feels like pathetic naiveté?

I don’t know anything.

You don’t know anything.

We can only hope that, just like the optimism of our early years, this is just a phase.

Maybe as the months march on, I will die so many times that I relish my fate as a cog in a dysfunctional machine. Till then, don’t you feel stuck?

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