A kitchen late at night, after a long day — for waking too early

The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Your chest can be still now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your hands be completely still.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Feel your cheeks let go. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the quiet be boring.

Let it all get further away. Softer. Let the dark be ordinary.

Let them. Slower now. The words can start to blur now.

Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.

The end. Sleep well.