Sleep story · quiet, books
Sleep story: a library at closing time, if you have five quiet minutes — for a racing mind
The last hour, when the lights go down row by row.
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 own book is heavy in your hands, and you have stopped reading it. The air smells of paper, dust and floor polish. The windows are dark enough now to reflect the room back at you.
The carpet has flattened every sound in the building down to nothing. Someone is pushing a trolley two rows away, and you can hear each wheel separately. Everything here will still be here tomorrow.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your cheeks let go.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The last of the day's light is going out of the high windows. There is a trolley of returned books beside the desk, waiting to be put back.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your ankles can go loose now.
The reading room you are in has one lamp left on, and it is the one above your table. The clock above the door is the old kind, with a second hand that moves in small jumps.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The library closed twenty minutes ago, and the staff are working along the far shelves, switching off sections. A book lies open on the next table, face down, which is technically not allowed.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the mattress take all of it.
You do not have to count them. Leave it there.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Nothing here needs following closely. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the dark be ordinary. You can stop listening properly.
Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for quiet, books.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when you are somewhere noisy — for winding down, A lake before dawn, when you only have a few minutes — for an overtired night or The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are short on time — for a restless night.