Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, if you are

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.

A tram goes past below, and you hear it before you see it. Nobody in this city knows where you are, and that is restful. Your case is open on the luggage rack, half unpacked.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The pillow is slightly too soft, and you fold it in half, which fixes it. The room is on the fourth floor, and the window looks out onto a street with one lit shop.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The bathroom light is off, and the fan has finally stopped. The air conditioning makes a low sound that you will stop noticing within a minute.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let the room get slightly further away. The words can start to blur now.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Softer. Let the next part go past without you.

Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.

The end. Sleep well.

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