Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are fitting this around other people — for winding down
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The window is cool against the side of your face. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on.
The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound.
Your chest can be still now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
You do not have to count them. Almost nothing to do now.
Slower. Let the quiet be boring. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
It is designed to fit around other people’s schedules.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.