Sleep story · travel, anonymous
A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when the day has been loud — for the hours after a late shift
A room you did not choose, in a city you do not have to know.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
Your case is open on the luggage rack, half unpacked. The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute. There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight.
Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound. The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The curtains are heavy and close properly, which is rarer than it should be. There is a bottle of water on the bedside table with the cap already loosened.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the mattress take all of it.
The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it. The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it. The bathroom light is off, and the fan has finally stopped.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your ankles can go loose now.
They will find their own way out. Just the breath.
Nothing here needs following closely. Slower now. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Just the dark. Sleep.
For days that were loud from the moment they started.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.
If this story does not settle you, try A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you have woken up too early — for waking too early, A fire dying down, when the house is busy — for jet lag or A lake before dawn, when you have been meaning to start — for winding down.