Most of my nights are spent in a dim-lit room. The warm glow from a bedside lamp bathes my space. A small lamp perches next to a Bose mini speaker, a book or two, a cork coaster painted with a sketch of an old-age TV, a japamala to rescue me from any paranormal. In the drawer of my side table is a rose scented hand lotion and a device called ‘the romantic’.
The thing with dim light is that it doesn’t let you do very much. To my senses, it is a cue to still myself. There were the years when I preferred bright white LEDs because it made me feel more energetic; when candles and dim lights were reserved for special kind of evenings.
At what point the line between special and ordinary evenings blurred, I cannot recall.