Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train (a sleep story), on a day that started badly — for a night when you do not want to think
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
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
There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to.
The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your cheeks let go.
The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on. Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again. Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let it all get further away. Slower now.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the breath. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the dark be ordinary. Almost nothing to do now. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
A day that started badly does not have to stay that way.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, cozy.