A bus at night, when you want something simple — for a racing mind

A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. There is a long stretch of road ahead with nothing on it. The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement.

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Let your breathing do the rest. Leave it there. Softer.

Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.