A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, before you go back to something hard — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second. The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years.

The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern. There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor. The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your ankles can go loose now.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your chest can be still now.

You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the next part go past without you.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Stay. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

You can stop listening properly. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let them.

Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.