Sleep story · travel, anonymous
Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, if you are fitting this around other people — for a restless night
A room you did not choose, in a city you do not have to know.
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 curtains are heavy and close properly, which is rarer than it should be. There is a bottle of water on the bedside table with the cap already loosened. There is a small card on the desk with the breakfast times on it, which do not matter tonight.
The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it. A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it. The bed has been turned down, and the sheets are cool on the side you have not been lying on.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute. Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop. Your case is open on the luggage rack, half unpacked.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The bathroom light is off, and the fan has finally stopped. The carpet is the colour of weak coffee and absorbs every sound.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Nothing here needs following closely. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
They will find their own way out. Let the dark be ordinary. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Just the dark. The words can start to blur now.
It is designed to fit around other people’s schedules.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, anonymous.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere, when you are on your own — for the hours after a late shift, A lake before dawn, when you have been meaning to start — for a night when you do not want to think or A kitchen late at night, when you are not sure this will work — for waking too early.