Sleep story · warm, home
A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for jet lag
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
There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. 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.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Feel your cheeks let go. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Just the breath. Nothing here needs following closely.
Let it all get further away. Just the dark. Almost nothing to do now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay with the weight of your body. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try A fire dying down, when the house is busy — for the hours after a late shift, A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for an overtired night or A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for the hours after a late shift.