Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for winding down
One small light on, a cooling cup of tea, and the rest of the house dark.
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 chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.
The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the weight.
Slower now. Softer. Let the dark be ordinary.
They will find their own way out. Slower. Let the room get slightly further away.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.