Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you want to be left alone — for the hours after a late shift

The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does 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 upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

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.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

Let your hands be completely still. Let your palms open if they were closed.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Stay. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Almost nothing to do now. Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Just the dark. Let the next part go past without you. Let the room get slightly further away.

Nothing here asks anything of you socially.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.