A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep

The story, in full

The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your chest can be still now.

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.

Feel your wrists loosen. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Slower now. Just the breath.

Nothing here needs following closely. Sleep. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Softer. Slower.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.