A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when nothing else has worked today — for an overtired night

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. 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. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Your ankles can go loose now. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Just the breath.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. You do not have to count them. Let the dark be ordinary.

Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.

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