Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have been on screens all day — for an overtired night
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. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. 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.
The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Your ankles can go loose now.
The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your chest can be still now.
Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your hands be completely still.
The words can start to blur now. Nothing here needs following closely.
They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let it all get further away.
Sleep. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let your breathing do the rest.
After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a boat at anchor, if you have five quiet minutes — for the hours after a late shift, A field under snow, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for a night when you do not want to think or A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for winding down.