A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow

The story, in full

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

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

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.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

The words can start to blur now. You do not have to count them.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Leave it there. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

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