A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — for jet lag

The story, in full

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.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Nothing here needs following closely. Stay with the weight of your body.

Let the quiet be boring. They will find their own way out. Let them.

Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.

The end. Sleep well.

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