Sleep story · cozy, rain
An attic room (a sleep story), when the weather has kept you inside — for a restless night
Sloping ceiling, rain on the roof a foot above your head.
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
The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.
The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Your chest can be still now. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Slower now.
Softer. Let the room get slightly further away. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Just the breath. Leave it there. Almost nothing to do now.
Bad weather is a decent excuse to stay in and do this.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.