A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for a restless night

The story, in full

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

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. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

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. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

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.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

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.

Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Let the next part go past without you. Let the dark be ordinary.

Stay. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Let the quiet be boring. Let it all get further away. Slower now.

Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.