I hate turning on the overhead lights in the evenings. Those ceiling chandeliers shine so harshly and mercilessly, it's like being in an operating room. You can immediately see every speck of dust on the shelves, every little thing on the table, and your own eyes, tired from the day, in the mirror. So, as soon as darkness falls completely outside, I arrange a candlelit evening for myself, without any romantic occasions for guests, just for myself, to breathe. 🕯🕯

I placed several jars of scented wax around the room and struck a long match. The delicate scent of baked apple, vanilla, and cinnamon immediately wafted through the apartment. The living flame crackled softly, whimsical shadows flitted slowly across the light wallpaper, and the room was instantly transformed. It became soft, quiet, and soothing 🕯.

I climbed onto the sofa, covered myself with my favorite knitted blanket, and the cat immediately settled down on my lap, contentedly cranking up his loud little motor 🐈. I lay in the semi-darkness, looking at this tiny, dancing flame and thinking about how little a person truly needs to be happy when there's dank darkness outside, and long-awaited silence reigns within.