A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for jet lag

The story, in full

Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. 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.

The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on. The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound. The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

The bathroom light is off, and the fan has finally stopped. The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

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.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight. A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your ankles can go loose now.

The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound. A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop. Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful.

Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

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

Let the room get slightly further away. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the next part go past without you.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Slower now.

When concentration is gone, work with what is left.

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

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.