Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have tried everything else — for the hours after a late shift

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

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.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel your wrists loosen.

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

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

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

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

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

If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let the room get slightly further away. You do not have to count them.

Let it all get further away. Softer. Stay with the weight of your body.

The words can start to blur now. Slower. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.