A bus at night for a restless night

There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Your ankles can go loose now. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your hands be completely still.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let the mattress take all of it.

Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Let it all get further away. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Let them. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away.

Leave it there. Let the dark be ordinary. The words can start to blur now.

It works best in the hour before something difficult.

The end. Sleep well.