A bus at night, when the day has been loud — for a racing mind

The story, in full

Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out. You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds.

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

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Your chest can be still now.

The city goes past below you, shopfronts and bus stops and people waiting for other buses. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

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 breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes.

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

There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the mattress take all of it.

You do not have to count them. The words can start to blur now.

Let it all get further away. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Nothing here needs following closely.

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

For days that were loud from the moment they started.

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

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.