Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when the weather has kept you inside — for an overtired night

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

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.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Stay with the weight of your body. Let the room get slightly further away.

You do not have to count them. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. You can stop listening properly.

Bad weather is a decent excuse to stay in and do this.

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