A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you have been putting it off — for the hours after a late shift

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. 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 thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let your hands be completely still. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

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

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Just the weight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Almost nothing to do now. Stay with the weight of your body. Stay.

You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.

Let everything get quiet, including this.