A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you

The story, in full

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.

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.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your ankles can go loose now.

The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your chest can be still now.

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 one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let it all get further away. Leave it there.

The words can start to blur now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay with the weight of your body.

Slower now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the next part go past without you.

Pick this one when you are short on time.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

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