An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.

There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement.

If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Slower now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

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

Sleep. Nothing here needs following closely. Slower.

Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.

The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.