Lying Awake at Night, Lost in Netflix, Reflecting on Life

It's 2 a.m., and I am watching Netflix, all cuddled up beneath my thick blanket in my dimly lit room with very heavy eyes. I am trying hard to register everything happening on the screen, but it takes a lot of effort. I don't know why, but I am actively keeping track of all the who-said-what and who-did-what.

There's a very good chance that when I wake up tomorrow morning, I will have forgotten almost everything, and maybe only the faded storyline will remain. I know I will feel bad for the time I've wasted watching this. I am so tired I must sleep right now. I pity myself for wanting to sleep but not being able to make up my mind in its favor, instead deciding to continue doing what I've been doing for the past hour and fifteen minutes. It feels like I'm under some strong spell.

I've noticed that nights are like this. I need to create plans for post-8 p.m. during the daytime and follow them without fail; otherwise, the spirit of the night dominates, and I have to surrender. It's not that I want to surrender—I have given my share of good fights and have also won many of them—but lately, I've noticed that I want to experience the nights, staying awake for as long as possible. This is because I'm busy during the day doing important work, which leaves me no time for myself. So at night, I push my physical well-being to the backseat and fulfill my desire to lead an independent life: keeping in touch with myself, knowing myself, understanding how my mind deals with thoughts, hunting them, blocking them, diverting them, and exploring them. Sometimes, my mind just crawls without any particular aim. I've caught myself staring at my laptop, phone, or somewhere else for minutes while my mind swims softly, not aggressively chasing any particular thought. It's like a person with little money in a superstore who visits shop after shop with little intention to buy anything, just wanting to roam and explore rather than dwell and indulge. I love that person because I’ve been that person for a good number of years in my life.

When I find my mind lurking, I bring it back to something creative and let it be free in that spot. I know that in the right spot, it will feel good and perform well.

I spend hours during the night obsessing over small details that seemed insignificant during the day but grow massive at night, making mountains out of molehills. I also tend to be more critical of myself, analyzing things through a magnifying lens. Inside the blanket, I create a tubular space, imagining that I’m living in a tunnel. The light from my phone screen dimly lights the space inside the tunnel. I keep a small water bottle next to me inside this tunnel. It's made of glass with a gray silicone cover that gives it a soft touch and good grip. I also keep a small mobile stand in this tunnel. It has an adjustable viewing angle, a solid base that keeps it upright, and a firm hold to ensure the phone remains stable. I don’t use it very often, but the fact that it is within close reach keeps me satisfied during my binge hours. I am a hoarder for electronic items and such utility gadgets. Well, not exactly a hoarder, but I tend to keep things available even if I don’t need them at present but foresee a probable need in the future. I also keep with me a small pouch to hold wet tissues, pens, lens cleaner, earbuds etc. I value anything that increases productivity or reduces manual effort, and it makes complete sense to me to include the usage of such things in my daily life.

My main goal is to get into a comfortable pose, at a perfect viewing angle, where I can keep watching the screen without any of my muscles feeling fatigue, spasm, or ache. It’s a tough, almost impossible goal, but I still try for it daily. When I do, I see it as self-care, and I feel proud of myself in those moments. No amount of persistent failure discourages me from attempting it again the next day. Days are busy, and I don’t have much personal time—that's fine. I have the nights, and I’m always looking for ways to make friends with them.

The emanation of my body heat gradually makes the tunnel a warm and cozy place to be. I don’t keep my face inside the tunnel for more than a couple of minutes, as I crave fresh air to breathe. When I stretch my legs or twist my ankles, I can feel the release of body heat, making the tunnel even warmer and my spirit calmer.

Many nights, when I’m too tired, I spend the entire Netflix time trying to decide what to watch—exploring options, trying a show or two, finding them far from my expectations, and quickly returning to square one to search again. Some shows I’ve enjoyed include Gilmore Girls, Seinfeld, Fisk, One Day at a Time, Stranger Things, Ozark, Grace and Frankie, The Big Bang Theory, The OA, Money Heist, Girlboss, Offspring, and Friends. I don’t recall the full list, and I doubt it would serve much purpose to do so. Characters and plots inspire me deeply, and I believe it shouldn’t take more than 2–3 episodes to understand if a show will keep you hooked. I’ve taken many lessons from different characters into my real life and still follow many of them. Of course, I won’t delve deeper into that to avoid being judged, but I enjoy being weird in many aspects. It allows me to paint myself in colors of my choice, and my soul feels free and untamed. Many characters have stayed with me, becoming part of my personality. They’ve supported me, inspired me, given me fresh perspectives, and lessened my pain in various ways.

I poke my head out to scan the world outside my tunnel. There is a soft darkness in my room, the air sparse, and everything stands still, as if frozen in time by some unseen force. My eyes lower to observe how the blanket is spread over me, folded in places, forming mounds here and there. It looks like a mountain range—smooth, calm, and poised, as if it has just emerged from the earth’s surface. I look out of the huge window facing the fields, and all I can see are trees, distant houses, a vast skyline, and a narrow stretch of road making an impossible curve that leads to the mountains. At times, I have woken up in the middle of the night with my gaze fixed on one of the trees, and in those moments, I could see some figure in the tree—some very clear, motherly figure, goddess-like figure. In those moments, I try to lay still, remaining engrossed in that sensation for as long as possible. It is not unusual to see different shapes and patterns in shadows and objects during the night hours, and all I do is avoid sensationalizing it in my mind, keeping things ordinary and coming in sync with them. Gradually, such imagery fades away, but the thoughts that arose from it leave an impression in the subconscious mind. These impressions serve as navigation boards for future thoughts to find their destinations.

I actively scan the atmosphere outside in search of anything unusual or interesting but find none. Everything seems in deep slumber to the external eyes, but I sense something intangible—the way the darkness and stillness seem to observe me back. It’s hard to explain but easy to feel. The longer I stare after realizing I am being "watched" by this stillness, the stronger the urge grows to continue staring. Yet, this activity gives me little in return, apart from a fleeting thrill and a growing fatigue.

The field outside looks like a face—a disfigured one, but it exudes no complaint or interest. It’s a face that has seen life in its entirety, endured setbacks, absorbed lessons, and moved forward without protest. I find myself wanting to understand it more deeply, to see what kind of emotions flow through it, to observe how it reacts to the world. The narrow stretch of concrete road winding above the field faintly resembles a receding hairline, while the sky above is packed with dazzling dots—a sea of extraordinarily bright stars, with not a single cloud in sight.

As I sit lost in these thoughts, a moderately blunt pain begins to form on the left side of my lower neck and upper back. The moment my focus shifts to that spot, the pain sharpens and grows severe, much like a child who cries louder upon realizing they’re being noticed. It’s almost shocking how quickly the discomfort escalates from faint to significant. I attempt to shift my posture slightly, but the pain is so intense that even a minor movement feels like an uphill battle.

With deliberate effort, I relax the muscles on my left side and use my right elbow as a fulcrum to adjust my body, bringing it into a neutral position where my left side bears no weight or stretch. I stay in this position, hoping for the pain to subside. My thoughts wander to the idea of taking a painkiller once I muster the strength to get up. A recent memory flashes: a few months ago, I had suffered a severe lower back pain that required weeks of lumbar support and a course of painkillers during the first week.

Minutes pass, and the sharpness of the pain begins to fade, though the position I’m in is far from comfortable for the rest of my body. When the pain reduces to a manageable level, I tentatively try shifting to a more relaxed position, but the pain returns with a jolt. Reflexively, I resume my earlier posture, resigned to enduring the discomfort of this awkward alignment rather than facing the sharp stabs of pain. I decide to try to sleep in this position.

Closing my eyes, my thoughts drift to near-death experiences (NDEs), a topic I’ve been researching extensively these days. I’ve devoured books and medical journals, not with any specific purpose, but out of a newly-erupted curiosity. Since my mother passed away in March 2023, my perspective on life and death has shifted profoundly. Time feels more precious than ever. And I am constantly hunting out for titles to read and watch that deal with the theme of death.

My mother’s death weighs heavily on me. She had to fight for her life for 72 days—an agonizing struggle between life and death. What more pitiable way could there be to go? Thinking about NDEs gives me a sense of connection to her and fills me with hope that she was welcomed by loving spirits—perhaps her own parents—as she transitioned from this life. My mother was a kind soul, and I am comforted by the belief that many loving beings were waiting to embrace her, to tend to her pain, and to offer her peace.

A prominent element of NDEs is the "life review," where a person sees their entire life flash before their eyes in vivid detail. I close my eyes again, and faces emerge: my mother, my father, my paternal grandparents. They appear simultaneously, like four stamps pressed onto a single page. I imagine the helplessness my mother must have felt in her final moments, unable to express herself due to the stroke she had suffered. Outwardly, she remained motionless, but in her heart, I know she must have cried out loud for help, for days and nights, finding every fiber of her being exhausted and sucked out of energy, still retrying the same the next day, all this to avoid getting died.

Tears roll down my cheeks. The flow is almost furious. I remove my spectacles and let the grief take over, crying silently for several minutes. When I finally wipe my face with a wet tissue, my mind feels heavy yet oddly clear. I put my glasses back on, feeling the wet frame press against my temples. I don’t mind—it feels like an extension of the tears themselves, a reminder of their meaning.

The tears are precious because they’re dedicated to my mother. My mind feels blank, yet it isn’t ready to receive new thoughts. It’s numb, as if a storm has flattened the sand dunes of my mental landscape, leaving behind an eerie calm. By now, I’ve lost the desire to continue watching Netflix. I place my phone aside, adjust my body gently to avoid aggravating my aching neck, and curl into a fetal position, careful not to disturb my back.

I find myself wishing for someone to take care of me at this moment—to gently remove my glasses, pat me on the back, and tell me I’ve done well to face life’s challenges without compromising my values. I long to hear words of encouragement, to be told that my ancestors, my mother, and the deities I worship love me unconditionally. I imagine this figure kissing my forehead and rubbing it with tenderness until I drift off to sleep.

I started to feel that the night, with all its distractions, self-centeredness and strong-willed biases, hasn’t been bullying me; it isn't my enemy—it is a mirror, reflecting the parts of me I haven't dared to confront in the daylight. It is just aiming to perfect me, to empower me. With this thought, I decide to sleep with my spectacles on. I begin to relax my facial muscles, visualizing the tension melting away fiber by fiber. Somewhere in the process, I slip into a deep, dreamless sleep. And in the final seconds before consciousness slipped away, I felt the faintest trace of something sacred. It was a profound feeling and I smiled. I can say the nights, however long and restless and dominating, have their purpose too, and they deliver it at the right moment to the deserving recipient.