I’ve been on a reading jag these past few days, reading novels that take place in France, and living with lamplight instead of bright overhead lights. This is a recurring theme with me; when the weather is cloudy there’s something so cozy about clicking on a single soft pink bulb and it doesn’t matter of the base it’s screwed into is an expensive piece by Murray Feiss or a ten dollar ceramic thing from Target, as long as the mood is right.
With my plush microfiber living room furniture all in cranberry, and warm tones on the walls and carpets, lamplight is especially cozy, and in my head When I move to the bedroom, everything is nautical stripes and medium woods and with the tiny bulbs in the bookcase headboard illuminating just the spot I most need, I pretend I’m in a ship at sea, and the sound of wind and rain beyond my window becomes the sound of surf instead.
Some may think this mental escapism is unhealthy, but I always know the reality of my location. The imagined space simply sets a mood.