A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have been on screens all day — for a racing mind

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your ankles can go loose now.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Let the mattress take all of it. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Stay with the weight of your body. Just the dark.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the dark be ordinary. Just the breath.

Nothing here needs following closely. Let the room get slightly further away. You do not have to count them.

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

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