Sleep story · warm, home
Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night
One small light on, a cooling cup of tea, and the rest of the house dark.
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
Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.
The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.
Let your hands be completely still. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.
Your chest can be still now. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Just the breath. Softer.
Let the dark be ordinary. Stay. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your breathing do the rest.
Not being in the mood is a normal starting point.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.
If this story does not settle you, try A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for jet lag, A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are waiting for something — for the hours after a late shift or A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need to stop thinking about work — for a restless night.