A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. 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.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your cheeks let go.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Just the weight. You do not have to count them.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Stay with the weight of your body. Let the dark be ordinary.

A few minutes is the whole requirement.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.