Sleep story · travel, anonymous
A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for a racing mind
Upper deck, front seat, a city going past that you do not have to join.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here.
The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Let them. You do not have to count them.
They will find their own way out. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the next part go past without you.
Just the dark. Slower now. Almost nothing to do now.
Too tired to try hard is exactly the right amount of tired for this.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.