The Last Light in the Block

If you’re lying down, let the bed take your weight. You don’t have to hold yourself up right now.

Let your breathing find its own pace. Don’t change it. Just notice it.

Picture a tower block at night, from across the courtyard. Fourteen floors of windows. Most of them are lit — yellow, blue from a telly, the soft orange of a lamp.

It’s late. And, one by one, the lights start going off.

Top floor, left corner. Off.

Somebody on the ninth floor. Off.

A kitchen on the fourth. The light stays on a little longer — someone’s having one last cup of tea — then off.

Breathe in… and out.

Each light that goes out is somebody putting the day down. Somebody pulling the covers up. Somebody saying that’s enough for today.

You can say it too. That’s enough for today.

More lights go off. The block is getting darker, softer. The streetlights stay on below, keeping watch, like they always do.

Breathe in… and out.

Now there are only a few lights left. And maybe one of them is yours. Maybe you’re the one still awake.

That’s alright.

Across the courtyard, in another block, someone else is awake too. You’ll never meet them. But they can see your light, and it tells them something simple: still here. Somebody else is up. They’re not the only one.

Your light is keeping someone company, and you didn’t even know.

Breathe in… and out.

You don’t have to sleep right now. You only have to rest. Resting counts.

Let your shoulders sink. Let your jaw go loose. Let your hands be heavy.

When you’re ready, and only when you’re ready, reach over and turn off your light.

The streetlights will keep watch.

Goodnight, neighbour.