A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you have woken up too early — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. 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.

The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. Your own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.

If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let the room get slightly further away. Almost nothing to do now.

The words can start to blur now. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Sleep.

Softer. Just the dark. Just the breath.

Waking too early is a specific kind of frustrating. This helps with the frustration.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.