Sleep story: a bus at night, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The bus stops and starts with a slow, heavy movement. There are four other people downstairs and nobody up here. Outside, someone is walking a dog that does not want to be out.

You do not have to get off for another twenty minutes. The lights inside are the dim blue kind that buses use at night. The heating comes through the floor and makes your feet warm.

Your chest can be still now. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Let your hands be completely still. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

You are on the top deck of the last bus, in the front seat, with the whole window to yourself. Your ticket is on the seat beside you, already used.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

A streetlight passes across the ceiling every few seconds. The driver takes the corners slowly, as if the bus were full.

If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your ankles can go loose now.

Slower. You do not have to count them.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.