Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long

The story, in full

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. 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.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your wrists loosen.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.

Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Slower. Let the room get slightly further away.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. They will find their own way out. Just the dark.

You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.

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

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