2/4/25- Stuck- by: Hank Magan

I’m sharing this writing provided to me by a longtime friend, whose son took his life a year ago today. He was a brilliant young man. A life gone too soon. Prayers for peace today for all who loved Hank and his family.

 *******

I let out a hefty sigh, but only on the inside. More like a groan, really. I gently rest my face on the glass of my window—it’s cold, numbing.

I don’t realize the monotony of life’s daily tedium until it’s staring me blankly in the face. The outside appears to be shrouded in a thick, fog-like haze. People mill about with halfheartedness muting their respective dispositions. Traffic flows steadily beneath the city’s characteristic brutalist architecture. The few remaining trees stand naked and upright, if not a little wilted. The gray of the clouds completes the scene unfolding before me, the same scene that seems to play out every day. A special bleakness lingers in the biting winter air; the world is tired.

All I can think about is being at home, curled up in the warmth of my cozy bed, in my cozy nightclothes, watching a cozy movie. This thought is enough to provoke a sigh, this time a real one. I yearn to stay stuck to the glass forever, existing solely in the context of my own head—it brings me comfort to escape the aforementioned tedium every once in a while. Yet, for whatever reason, I lethargically pick myself up off of the glass and return my dull gaze to my computer monitor. I don’t feel quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong.

5PM inevitably rolls around and I make my immersion into the dreariness of rush hour traffic. I make this drive every day: same time, same vehicle, same streets, same turns, same sights, same feelings. I think about swerving into oncoming traffic just for some semblance of change. I never do.

I get home, I eat. My nose is stuffy, I hardly taste the food. I change into my cozy nightclothes, throw on a cozy movie, and curl up in the warmth of my cozy bed. I guess this is what I wanted, but I still don’t feel right. I never do.

Reflecting on the last several years, I realize just how similar they all are. None of my memories are without an acute sense of haziness and constancy. I struggle to distinguish between the old and the new, the happy and the unhappy, the sunny and the somber. I continue to exist, but for what? The unstoppable marching of time drags me along with it, whether I like it or not. Life passes consciousness by; I remain stuck to the glass.

I begin to think that it’s not the world that is tired, it’s just me. Fantasizing about what I want out of my life simply makes the disparity between my dreams and my reality even more apparent. I fight the agonizing urge to accept that change is fallacious—it’s part of my nightly routine. Fighting is exhausting, and so I drift to sleep.

It is not often that I dream; tonight happens to be a welcome exception.

Oddly, I feel more lucid when dreaming than I do while conscious. Perhaps it makes sense, adjourning the droning of reality and all. I dream of the foggy haze, the muted people, the constant traffic, the blocky concrete buildings, the dying trees, and the freezing winter air. I dream of my chronic tiredness, my yearning to be warm in my bed, and my persistent, inexplicable sense of discomfort. I find myself back at the office watching the world go by, head to glass.

The cold sensation on my forehead is addicting. The numbness is mellowing. I find myself sinking further into my chair, feet on the floor, face slumped against the glass. It’s anesthetizing, yet therapeutic. I let myself rest until my whole body is numb, my gaze still fixed on the outside world.

I lay motionless, observing. Everything seems exactly how I expect it to: lifeless, uninspired, and banal. Disinterested, I turn my focus to myself. The total lack of physical sensation is liberating; I don’t feel tired anymore, I don’t feel at all. My mental fog seemingly dissipates with the onset of tranquility. Ironically, feeling “awake” is how I am certain this is a dream.

As I wallow in supposed mental clarity, any sense of the passagetime escapes my mind. I no longer feel weighed down by my subconscious wrestling with the possibility of change—after all, change is defined by my perception of time. I return my focus to the outdoors after an indistinct period of meditation, feeling refreshed and at peace.

Among the quiet desolation, something piques my interest: I begin to notice spring finding its legs and winter laying down to rest.

The dormant trees give way to new life, sprouting delicate hues of pinks and whites in full bloom. The dissonant humming of traffic is gently replaced by birdsong. The passersby assume more genuine dispositions, wearing smiles across their faces. The clouds part, revealing a pure blue sky and making way for the sun’s radiance. The surly concrete buildings appear brighter and reassuringly familiar. There is no haze. I dream of an invigorating new scene, characterized by rejuvenation and carefree spontaneity.

The window absorbs the emergent sun’s warmth. I am imbued with contentment as this warmth washes over my body, starting in my forehead and working its way down to my toes. A special ambition lingers in the soothing spring air; the world is smiling.

I blink hard, returning to reality just before my alarm goes off.

I sit up and look outside. I still see naked trees, ugly gray buildings, and lulling drabness. I still feel heavy and tired. I still am obfuscated by a persistent, dreary mental haze. I still would rather be absorbed by my blankets and linens and forget about my existence.

Yet, as I force myself awake and eventually outside, I can’t help but crack a slight half-smile. I still don’t feel quite right, but something feels different. I head to work, which feels slightly less tedious than it did the day prior.

I suppose I find solace in knowing that spring is approaching. Perhaps the unstoppable marching of time is actually a good thing. I think about how things will be different in the future, preparing myself for the ensuing spring. It feels good to have something to look forward to.

I find myself back in my cubicle, sitting next to my unfeeling window. However, this time I remain upright, taking in the moment. It’s perhaps a silly thing to take pride in, but it’s pleasing to experience something different for a change, no matter its consequence. Despite my mental fatigue, I don’t feel quite so stuck to the glass.

The beauty in change is that it evidences hope: these outwardly inconsequential changes accumulate and pay dividends. Time takes time, but with patience I might find the life I’m looking for.

“But to this day the Lord has not given you a mind that understands or eyes that see or ears that hear.”

-Deuteronomy 29: 4