Sleep story · cozy, rain
Sleep story: an attic room, when you have already had a long week — for winding down
Sloping ceiling, rain on the roof a foot above your head.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
There is a dormer window with a deep sill, and a mug left on it from last night. The roof is holding, and the rain is outside, and that is the whole arrangement. The bed is pushed into the low corner, which makes it feel like a den.
The rain changes intensity every few minutes and never quite stops. A carrier bag of shopping is still on the chair, unpacked. There is a box of things under the eaves that nobody has opened in years.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The rain on the roof tiles is much closer and louder up here than anywhere else in the house. The floorboards are bare and slightly uneven, and one of them always creaks.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your ankles can go loose now.
The lamp is on the floor beside the bed because there is no room for a table. The room is in the roof, and the ceiling slopes so steeply that you have to duck near the window.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The air up here is warmer than downstairs and smells of old wood. The radiator is small and makes a ticking sound as it cools.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your cheeks let go.
Softer. Stay with the weight of your body.
Let the next part go past without you. They will find their own way out. Let it all get further away.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Slower.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.