A bus at night, before something difficult — for a night when you do not want to think

The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Your chest can be still now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let the mattress take all of it.

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The words can start to blur now. Slower now.

Stay. Let your breathing do the rest. Just the weight.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Almost nothing to do now. Softer.

It works best in the hour before something difficult.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.