Sleep story · quiet, books
A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been meaning to start — for a restless night
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. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps.
The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your hands be completely still.
Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.
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 upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you. The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Sleep. Just the breath.
Stay with the weight of your body. You do not have to count them. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
They will find their own way out. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the next part go past without you.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: the night train, when the house is busy — for an overtired night, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for a night when you do not want to think or A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have woken up too early — for the hours after a late shift.