Let yourself settle into stillness.
Loosen the body, ease the breath. Let the surface beneath you carry your weight, and let the noise of the day begin to drift—like sand slipping through fingers. Nothing to fix now. Nothing to do. Only this: being here, quietly, at the close of something.

Now imagine yourself alone in a wide, open desert.

The day is ending.

The heat that once rose from the stones is beginning to fade. You can feel it—how the air, once dry and heavy with warmth, now cools slowly, brushing against your skin like a soft cloth soaked in dusk. The ground beneath you is still warm, but it, too, is beginning to release the long-held breath of the day. It exhales upward, radiating from the rocks and sand in slow, invisible waves, until all that remains is a quiet, muted warmth—like the memory of fire after it has gone out.

Shadows stretch across the sand, long and deliberate, like fingers unfurling. They curve around stones, spill into cracks, soften every edge. What was once harsh and sunlit now becomes gentle and uncertain. The rocks, which glared under midday sun, now hold a deeper hue—ochre turning to rust, to umber, to near-black. They glow not with heat, but with something more internal. Like coals going dim.

Everything is slowing. Even time. The moments lengthen, stretch out between breaths. You feel it not just in the light, but in your body—in the way your thoughts pause between words, in the way your eyes linger a little longer on the horizon.

The sun is descending, not in haste, but in rhythm—like a tide receding without effort. It casts long, golden lines across the dunes, touching the ridges with fire, leaving the valleys in cool shadow. The sand itself seems to shimmer—ripples of light moving across its surface, as if the earth is exhaling color.

The sky above you changes in layers—first pale amber, then soft rose, then deepening violet, each hue dissolving slowly into the next. There’s no boundary, no line—just a wash of tones that bleed into one another like ink in water.

You sit still, wrapped in this unfolding.
You are not waiting.
You are simply witnessing.

And in this fading light, you feel something loosen inside you.

All that has happened today—the small efforts, the unfinished things, the thoughts you chased and the ones that escaped you—it all begins to fall away. Not erased, just quieted. The sun does not judge what it leaves behind. It simply lowers itself with grace.

So you sit with it. Breathing. Letting the cool wind rise. Letting the silence deepen.

There’s a kind of clarity here, in the stillness between light and dark. A moment where nothing needs to become anything else. The past has already happened. The future is not yet here. You are simply witnessing an ending.

The desert is not mournful. It does not grasp. It receives the night with the same dignity it received the morning. And so can you.

Sometimes, letting go is not dramatic. Sometimes, it is just this quiet willingness to watch the light leave the stones. To say: this was today. And now, it is over.

The sky darkens. The stars begin to appear—first a few, then dozens, then hundreds. The earth is cooling. The colors are gone now, replaced by shadow and hush.

And you are still sitting.
Calm.
Present.
At peace with the turning of the world.

Stay here for as long as you need.
Let the night wrap around you like a soft blanket.
Let the breath move through you with ease.

And when you’re ready, return slowly. To the room, to the body, to the quiet of evening.

I’ll let the music continue a little longer.
Take your time. Let the desert stay with you. Let the quiet of this sunset settle somewhere inside you, like the last warmth held in stone—soft, enduring, and ready to be remembered when the night deepens.