The Night Of

I think one of the most devastating aspects of all human existence is not that in which we are lost, but that in which we are found.

You're an early twenties kid who grew up in Queens.

You're extremely awkward and clearly not very popular amongst your peers at college.

You've only ever been with one girl before.

You have a hard time looking people in the eye.

You get invited to a party in Manhattan on a Friday night out of slight pity. It's probably the first party you've ever been invited to. You're excited to go.

You down a couple adderalls you typically abuse to stay more conscious; in this case, to hopefully be more present in the social sphere you're attending. It's like opening a door into a new dimension.

Your friend flakes on you.

You have to find your own means of transportation.

You steal your father's cab.

You drive all the way across the city to attend this party, passing beams of reflecting lights as if you're travelling through a vessel into this aforementioned dimension; like a new level of life you haven't unlocked.

You get caught up in Midtown, kick a couple of hecklers out of the backseat because you don't know how to switch your on duty light off.

An alluring young woman gets in the backseat before you get a chance to drive away. She has a twinkle in her eye. You don't know what to do... this has never happened before.

She looks like she needs someone to help her escape something ineffable. You're the only one there. You both feel comfortable in each other's company.

All of a sudden the need for validation from a blur of strangers no longer feels gratifying.

You stop at a gas station to grab a bottle.

She asks you to drive her to the beach. You drive to the banks of the Hudson River under the George Washington bridge and overlook the water.

You share a conversation about wishing to transport yourself somewhere else. Neither you or her are very content with your lives, but you've both found a brief moment of silence amidst the chaos of a city that never stops moving.

You exchange a couple laughs and the chemistry slowly settles in, despite your lack of experience with women.

She hands you a pill and invites you back to her townhouse.

You have a few more drinks. You pop another pill.

Mazzy Star's Into Dust is playing in the background. You begin to make-out. You go upstairs and go even further.

You're so in sync that you don't even realize you're a person anymore. Things slowly begin to fade.

You wake up and she's dead.

You're implicated in her murder.

Resisting arrest, possession of a weapon, aggravated sexual assault, premeditated murder to the first degree.

There isn't any hard evidence against you other than unfortunate circumstance and the fact that you're a Pakistani man in New York with social issues and the inability to stand up for yourself.

Boom, charged, no bail--fly risk.

Sent to Riker's.

Everyone thinks you're a monster, even the real ones.

You fall into a hole. You have to survive.

You make a few friends. Only one of them is real.

You get a few people killed.

You smoke a few schedule I narcotics.

You smuggle in a few schedule I narcotics.

You read a few books.

You get a tattoo.

You shave your head.

You get another tattoo.

Your chances of freedom narrow.

The media tears you apart and the DA bends the narrative in their own favor.

You get your day in court.

The only guy defending you in the free world is a mid-50s washed up lawyer with eczema and a bigger heart than the entire justice system.

He doesn't have his life together either, but he's the only one who believes in you, even though you've been pushed past the point of even remembering who that is.

He gives a long, heart-wrenching testimony.

The jury is hung.

The District Attorney decides not to re-try you.

You're a free man on the same grounds of evidence that was against you before you were profiled and dissected.

You re-enter society.

No one looks at you the same, not even your own family, but you can now look them all in the eye.

You can now stand your own ground.

You're now addicted to those schedule I narcotics you smoked in prison.

You return to banks of the Hudson in the middle of the night, under the same bridge where it all began.

You roll a heroin smoke and light it up.

You inhale it into your body and close your eyes.

You open them up and look next to you.

She's looking over at you, a ghostly expression sits across her face.

You stare back, coldly.

You close your eyes again and look back out over the water.

You're alone.

Now you are found.

I finished this show way back in August, but I just couldn't bring myself to write anything up for it until now. I don't know why.

This show profoundly affected me in a way that I couldn't totally describe then, and still really can't now.

The final episode made me cry harder than I had in a long time.

So much so that I had to pause it and just let all the tears pass.. Going back to it and writing this up is making me a little teary eyed too.

Something about seeing John Turturro, in his best performance, relentlessly defend Naz because he saw something in him that no one else did other than an easy case or an easy paycheck just shook me to my core and broke me in pieces.

Beyond all the themes of institutionalized corruption, racism, and failure of the justice system, I saw a theme of shattering individuality much more thoroughly.

Very few people will stand up for you, because it's much easier to fall back into the comfort of our own absorbed predicament.

You'll get torn apart and walked over by almost anyone in the world until you learn to stand on your own two feet.

And not just your own two feet, but with your own two eyes.

It's something that can only be authentically carved through your own experience in this system of reality.

Sometimes it takes life to beat you over the head and shit you out of the back end of its system to really come out changed.

Some get a wake-up call; Some don't.

Some enjoy navigating the sea; others have to face the harsh reality of its truth.

It's just so fucking sad to know that you're not fully awake yet.

And I've realized that's why I related to this series so fucking badly.

I empathized with Naz from the very beginning and didn't even realize why until far after it ended.

It was one thing seeing his odyssey throughout New York City in the first episode...

When that Mazzy Star song came on during the whole escalation between Naz in Andrea took place in that first episode leading up to her demise, I almost sunk in my seat because I was listening to that music a lot during my time in New York. where I would aimlessly hook-up and meet random girls off apps at night.

But it was another thing to feel the victimization of Naz to the bone... in a way I still can't fully articulate or wrap my head around.

A lot of people have the pleasure of not feeling like their body is being dragged through most of their life. So far dissociated from my actual self to the point that I don't even know who I am anymore.

It's felt like I've veeb getting closer and closer in the past year or so, but honestly, I don't even know if that's true.

I still go through most days being unable to truly connect with people in a two-sided way or focus enough on anything important.

It's become so bad that I have a hard time even sitting down and watching or writing about movies anymore, which are two of my biggest passions.

Directing my last film, re:attachment didn't even feel real. Partaking in most of life's activities doesn't even feel real.

It feels like people step over me and pass me by all the time and I just don't have any control over it.

Most of this shit stems from stuff I've insinuated in the past, in my other pieces of writings regarding repressed traumas finally surfacing and the dissociative nature between parallel systems inside my body, but ever since those revelations broke, I've slowly retreated into even deeper shutdown.

I'm just tired.

All the time.

It's hard for anything authentic to come out, and it really is beyond the fullest grasp of my current level of control.

Substances like weed and alcohol help sometimes, but they are not permanent, and as opened up as I get from them, they are not my authentic self.

I've come to accept that the deepest extents of my personality and awareness are buried deep within the ether of my consciousness, and it's going to take years and years and years of continuous work for it to come out in full actualization.

There are no easy shortcuts.

My biggest advice is to stand as much ground as you can and make your presence in life felt.

If you don't, you'll continue to keep drifting until life's ultimatum eventually slaps you across the face...

...and I honestly don't know which is worse.