A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), on a low-energy afternoon — for waking too early

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your chest can be still now.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.

Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let the quiet be boring. The words can start to blur now.

Let it all get further away. Let the room get slightly further away. Slower now.

You can stop listening properly. They will find their own way out. Leave it there.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.