At night, I flick on my little red lamp. Not because I’m running a secret photography darkroom. Not because I’m signaling passing ships. And no, it’s not because I’ve suddenly decided to become the neighborhood’s “woman of intrigue.”

It’s because that red glow does something to me. It casts the room in this strange cocktail of zen calm and mild horror movie. My brain, in all its overthinking glory, settles in like it’s wrapped in a warm blanket but my subconscious keeps an eye out for poltergeists.

Red light has this way of slowing down your heartbeat while simultaneously making you wonder if you’ve been transported into an artsy crime noir scene. It’s the color of sunsets, fine wine and warning signs. The perfect bedtime contradiction.

As I drift toward sleep, the room feels cocooned bathed in warmth, but with just enough eeriness to keep the dreams interesting. If my subconscious had a lighting preference, this would be it: a soothing reminder that the night is yours but also might have secrets.

So here’s to my red lamp. My nocturnal mood setter, my dreamland usher, my tiny stage light for the theater of the absurd that is my brain at 2 a.m.