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 window is thick and slightly green at the edges. 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. 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 thumbs rest where they landed. Your chest can be still now.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel your cheeks let go.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

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

They will find their own way out. Let the dark be ordinary.

Nothing here needs following closely. The words can start to blur now. Softer.

Just the dark. Slower now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.