Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time (a sleep story), if you have five quiet minutes — for a night when you do not want to think
The last hour, when the lights go down row by row.
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 own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Everything here will still be here tomorrow. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let your breathing do the rest.
Just the dark. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the dark be ordinary.
Almost nothing to do now. Let them. Nothing here needs following closely.
Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room, when you are doing this for the first time — for a restless night, A hotel room somewhere, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for the hours after a late shift or Sleep story: the house after everyone is asleep, if you are sceptical about all of this — for winding down.