Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, before you go back to something hard — for jet lag

The story, in full

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Let the mattress take all of it. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your hands be completely still.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your chest can be still now.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let your breathing do the rest.

Let the next part go past without you. Sleep. Let it all get further away.

The words can start to blur now. Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.

The end. Sleep well.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.