A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have tried everything else — for winding down

The story, in full

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. 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 hands be completely still. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full.

Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.

Your chest can be still now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let it all get further away. Just the breath.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Stay with the weight of your body. They will find their own way out.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

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