It always starts with one thought. Late at night, just before sleep, my mind fills up — too many things all at once. It turns nocturnal. Fully charged, Unfiltered. It jumps from one memory to another like skipping stones, so effortlessly, that I almost have to pause to admire it. Maybe my thoughts love the dark as much as I do. Maybe that’s why they wake up then. I used to question it. But I always fall asleep before the answer arrives.

I guess I get a kind of Spiderman-sense at night (which is ironic, since I hate spiders). Everything feels sharper. Clearer. The lyrics of a sad song suddenly make more sense. My favorite character’s emotions sit heavier in my chest. Sometimes, I can even hear the faint sound of tv from the neighbor’s house — until slowly it fades, replaced by whatever my mind chooses next. I think everyone has regrets. The kind where you did too little or too much. They slip in quietly. A memory. A conversation no one would think of having with me now. And somehow, I start rewriting it — coming up with all perfect clapback that would’ve ended it differently. Then comes the anger. At them, for what they said. At me for staying quiet, for enduring it. And then, just as quickly, I soften it. I tell myself it had to happen — that every version of me led here. People, they’re hard to understand. And so is responding to them. Late at night I think about that too. What is the right reaction? When certain people ask certain things — what am I supposed to feel? Is there even a right way to react? How do I know if I am over-reacting or not reacting enough? Am I too sensitive? Or just aware? And just when I feel close to an answer the thoughts drift away again.

The next moment I am thinking about a movie that once left me uneasy — the kind that lingers longer than it should. I have a rule now — no horror, no thriller, nothing dark. I used to love it as a kid, strangely enough. But not anymore. I like my mind quiet — or at least not filled with things that make it louder than it already is. As if my overthinking brain doesn’t do enough on its own, carving creases on my forehead. Especially, when you watch something scary — sleep becomes a task. Dreams turn into places you don’t want to be. So, it’s better this way. Still, my mind doesn’t always listen. It wanders. What if something moves in the closet, like in The Conjuring? What if something like those creatures from A Quiet Place is somewhere in the house, waiting for a sound? What if there is a zombie outbreak and I shouldn’t open the door for anyone? And I don’t stop there. I start planning, strategizing. Or maybe, I wouldn’t try to survive like they do in movies. But I don’t stay with that thought long enough. Because then I drift again — into something softer. I start building stories in my head. And honestly? we all do it. At least the ones who feel deeply and imagine endlessly. I go back to stories I love, to characters that feel almost real. I rewrote scenes that ended too soon. I stretch moments I give them better endings, or most honest ones. I imagine what happens next — the parts no one wrote. Because feeling things that deeply, carrying emotions that aren’t even yours — that must be one of the humane things we do. Sometimes I even think about writing it all down. Turning those fragments into something whole. But so far, they’ve stayed as bits and pieces — just like my thoughts.

I like to write — shocking, right? Well, it’s one of my ways. A quiet escape when countless thoughts cloud my mind. Somewhere between all those thoughts I feel my eyes slowly begin to give in. Sleep seeps in gently. Not before my cat Fury decided to disturb me, and when I finally tell him to go to sleep, I hear it — the faint sound of him eating. Then a soft jump onto my bed. A small climb onto my bookshelf. And just like that he seeps into deep, effortless sleep — probably better than mine. That’s the last thing I think, before my eyes close again, and I drift off.