An attic room, when your attention is scattered — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.

The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window. 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. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years. The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let your hands be completely still. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

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.

Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.

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

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Softer.

Nothing here needs following closely. Slower now. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.