A caravan by the sea, if you have done this a hundred times — for waking too early

The story, in full

The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor. The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding.

A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second. You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night. The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Sleep.

Let the quiet be boring. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Softer.

Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the dark be ordinary.

If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.