A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are short on time — for an overtired night

The story, in full

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. 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. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your chest can be still now.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

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.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

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.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

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

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Just the dark. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Let the quiet be boring. Let the room get slightly further away. Almost nothing to do now.

Slower. Let your breathing do the rest. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Pick this one when you are short on time.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

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