A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you have been on screens all day — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second.

You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying. The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.

Your chest can be still now. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds. The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second.

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

The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Let your breathing do the rest. You do not have to count them. Almost nothing to do now.

The words can start to blur now. They will find their own way out. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.