Blue light before bedtime is renowned for making it harder to fall asleep. I ’ve been trying to work out why I am waking up at early O clock or why I feel tired in the mornings when I do sleep through. Perhaps I am not getting enough sleep?
Experts say that it’s best to avoid looking at our phones or watching TV in the evening, especially in the last hour or so before bedtime, because of their blue tinged light?
However, new research, has found that in the morning, exposure to blue light and a a relevant wake up song can bring meaning to the reason why your night was "sleepless" and so for Easter here is my story to maybe stir a change in your bedroom preparations and have a better night’s effect to influence your body clock as the scientists would call it your circadian rhythm. The body clock is governed by a physical structure inside the brain, which gets signals from light-detecting cells in the eye. This helps make sure that we are more alert and energetic in the daytime, but as night approaches, our metabolism slows and we become ready to sleep, however the eye cells are especially sensitive to shorter wavelengths of light, otherwise known as blue light. This is why viewing screens in the evening wakes us up and can make it harder to nod off when we put down our phone.
All I think you should do now is chose a song to wake up to that makes you feel alive after a reasonable nights sleep.
Story for Easter
The Blue Light
Sheila stirred, a sense of unease preceding full consciousness. It wasn't the gradual brightening of morning that nudged her awake, but an alien luminescence, a stark, unwavering blue that sliced through the heavy, comforting darkness of her bedroom. The night, usually a soft, enveloping blanket, felt violated by this intrusive glow. Her hand, still heavy with the residue of sleep, instinctively reached for her phone on the bedside table, a familiar anchor in the pre-dawn gloom. It lay there, a dormant circle of blue, reflecting nothing but a dot on the artexed ceiling of unsettling light.
A low murmur escaped her lips, a half-formed question directed into the stillness. "Alexa," she whispered, her voice raspy with sleep, "what time is it?"
The disembodied voice that replied lacked any human warmth, any hint of the familiar comfort it usually offered. "Sheila -the time is 3:18 a.m." The starkness of the hour amplified her unease. What had pulled her from sleep at this unholy time?
A sigh, thick with the reluctance of forced wakefulness, escaped her. She yearned to sink back into the yielding softness of her pillow, to lose herself once more in the oblivion from which she had been so abruptly yanked. But the persistent, insidious intrusion kept her from resuming her sleep efforts. A light. Not a diffuse glow, but a focused, relentless blue, a flashing blink that painted a spectral, azure disc upon the textured surface of her ceiling. It was a malevolent eye staring down from the darkness above, each pulse a cold, digital heartbeat in the silence of her room.
It was an unnatural beacon, a stark azure rhythm that burrowed into her consciousness like a persistent, maddening throb. Each flicker was a tiny, insistent hammer blow against the fragile walls of her returning sleep, demanding her attention, refusing to be ignored.
Reluctantly, as if drawn by an unseen, irresistible current, Sheila threw back the comforting weight of her quilt. The sudden coolness of the air against her skin sent a shiver down her spine. Her bare feet, pale and vulnerable against the dark wood, met the chill of the floor. She moved slowly, cautiously, towards the source of the vexation, a knot of growing unease tightening in her chest as if a serpent was coiling around her heart.
But as she traversed the shadowed space, a disorienting perception seized her. In the oppressive gloom, where familiar shapes of furniture twisted into grotesque, unfamiliar semblances, the ethereal “dot” upon the ceiling seemed to possess a volition of its own. It danced, ever so subtly, just beyond her direct line of sight, a phantom will-o'-the-wisp leading her deeper into the heart of the nocturnal mystery. With each hesitant step she took, the blue beacon appeared to retreat, a silent, spectral mockery playing out in the suffocating darkness of her own familiar room.
A tremor of something beyond mere annoyance began to stir within her. A cold tendril of fear, like an icy breath, traced its path down her spine, raising the tiny hairs on her arms. What manner of light was this, that defied the very laws of stationary existence? Was it a trick of her weary eyes, was she even awake maybe a dream? Or was it something… else? Something that pulsed with an alien intent, beckoning her towards an unknown, and perhaps terrible, revelation in the dead of night? Her mind raced, searching for a logical explanation, a stray reflection, a faulty electronic device, but nothing felt right. This blue was too pure, too intense, its movement too deliberate.
As Sheila drew nearer to the light source, the dot, no longer a mere pinprick of light, commenced to pulse with an accelerated frenzy, its rhythm eerily mirroring the frantic tattoo of her own heart. Each beat of the spectral glow was an echo of the terror that bloomed within her breast, a macabre duet played out in the suffocating silence. The subtle movements of the light became more pronounced, more deliberate, as if it were aware of her approach, anticipating her arrival.
Then, as her gaze ascended, a horrifying metamorphosis unfolded. The diminutive point swelled, expanding with a dreadful purpose, resolving itself into a more substantial form. It was a shape undefined, yet menacingly present, a looming cloud of blue as if an entity was bearing down upon her. It hung in the air, a cold, ethereal weight threatening to crush her breath, the now, unblinking light fixed on her like a malicious gaze. The air around it seemed to shimmer, distorting the familiar lines of her ceiling.
Her breath hitched in her throat; a silent scream trapped within the confines of her lungs. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking an escape, a rational explanation, but found only deepening shadows and the relentless blue against the closed curtains had drawn before settling in bed.
For in that frozen instant, as the spectral shape loomed ever closer, bathing her face and shoulders in its chilling blue effulgence, a horrifying realisation dawned within the abyssal depths of her understanding. The light was not emanating from something; the light was the thing itself. A cold, intangible presence, drawn from the very fabric of the night, or perhaps from somewhere far beyond.
A whisper of an ancient, half-forgotten dread slithered into her consciousness, a chilling fragment of childhood lore, a tale whispered in hushed tones during sleepovers. They always used to say if you die in your dreams…
The unspoken continuation of that dire warning hung heavy in the air, a suffocating premonition. Her eyes, wide with a terror that transcended the earthly, remained fixed upon the encroaching blue. Sheila felt the chilling certainty that the boundary between the sleeping world and the waking nightmare had dissolved. The final, fatal slumber was upon her, and the ancient adage was about to claim its terrible truth. The coldness intensified, seeping into her very bones.
Then came the voice, not from Alexa, not from any device, but seemingly from the very air around her, a resonant whisper that cut through the oppressive silence. “Wake up, Sheila, it’s not your time.”
The blue light now flickered violently, its oppressive weight momentarily lifting. The amorphous shape wavered, then began to recede, shrinking back into the insistent, yet now somehow less menacing, pulse on the ceiling. The paralysis that had gripped her began to ebb, leaving her trembling and weak, her limbs heavy and unresponsive.
The light on her phone, the innocent blue glow of a screen left on, now seemed spiteful, a tiny portal to something vast and unknowable. Had it all been a dream?
With a shuddering breath, Sheila finally managed to move, as she found herself in her comfy bed and she looked over to the dressing table, her eyes still wide from the bedtime experience. Her gaze remained fixed but there was no light, no pulsating blue light just the dawn light trying to shine through her curtains. Then she heard Alexa play a song which filled the room. It was a sad, vulnerable melody, a song of profound loss and disorientation, a song she loved playing, a song she had even seen the artist sing live; a song now drifting from the Amazon robotic device. It had somehow begun to play, a melancholic soundtrack to her lingering fear. It was Harry Styles. “Alexa,” she croaked, her voice still trying to work out what she had experienced, “stop.”
But the music continued, a poignant ballad that seemed to echo the fracturing of her own reality, the sense that something fundamental had shifted within her. And then, his voice, usually a source of comfort, now filled with a raw and unsettling vulnerability, sang a line that resonated with the icy dread still clinging to Sheila:
"What am I now? What am I now? What if I'm down? What if I'm out?"
The lyrics hung in the air, a chilling reflection of her own internal state. The song, typically about the ache of romantic loss, now spoke to a deeper, more profound fear: the terrifying loss of control over her own mind and body, the questioning of her own sanity, and the horrifying possibility that she had, in some unfathomable way, crossed a threshold from which there was no return.
A profound unease settled within her, colder and more insidious than the initial fear. It wasn’t just the memory of the blue light, the encroaching shape, or the spectral voice. Now, it was this… this uncanny soundtrack to her terror, a song that seemed to confirm the deepest, darkest implications of her nightmare, a bizarre and unsettling validation of the impossible.
After that night, Sheila left the iPhone downstairs. Where it had once provided comfort, now keeping it with all the time, felt like a terrifying prophecy linked to the song that woke her. The iPhone was banished from her room entirely, standing as a silent guard against the darkness.
Sheila knew the blue light was a warning, settling like a cold stone in her stomach. The sudden serenade, once comforting, now reminded her of the thin line between dreams and death. Harry had sung it as a warning, and Sheila almost experienced it in the night. What was once pleasure now carried the chilling echo of the unknown.
POEM
This poem to accompany this blog hopefully paints a picture of someone feeling overwhelmed by the complexities of modern life, particularly the constant presence of technology. They are grappling with existential questions and experiencing physical and emotional discomfort. Sleep offers a desired escape, symbolised by the journey "up the stairs to Bedfordshire," but even this is haunted by the "technical changes."
Where am going, what shall I do, Why I am here?
Its bedtime, going up the stairs to Bedfordshire
Can I take all the technical changes with me when I go?
If you can sleep with such company, it won’t know
Dehumanised articles running my life
Lots of nagging pains, no nagging wife
Am I okay, I keep waking at odd times, my mind it sinks
I wake up to the radio and ask Alexa what she thinks
But I need to sleep through the night, I have had a hard day
Just focus on the dreams, being a millionaire one day!
Sounds nice, sounds like a fairy tale don’t you think?
Just wait for the call, don’t wait for the blue light to blink