A bus at night (a sleep story), when you are waiting for something — for waking too early

The story, in full

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Nothing here needs following closely. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Let the dark be ordinary. Slower. Almost nothing to do now.

Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.

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

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.