Sleep story: an attic room, after a long day — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.

The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools. The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

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

There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let the quiet be boring. Just the dark.

Leave it there. Just the weight. Let your breathing do the rest.

Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for cozy, rain.