A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are not in the mood — for waking too early

The story, in full

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

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let the room get slightly further away. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Sleep.

Not being in the mood is a normal starting point.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

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