A lighthouse at the end of a long day, before you go back to something hard — for winding down

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

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

Let the mattress take all of it. Your chest can be still now.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Slower.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let it all get further away. Let the quiet be boring.

Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.