Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, if you have

The story, in full

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. 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. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your wrists loosen.

The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your ankles can go loose now.

The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

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

You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away. Sleep.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay. Nothing here needs following closely.

Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

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