Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for the hours after a late shift
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound. The window is cool against the side of your face. Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet.
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. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your hands be completely still.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let the next part go past without you. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Almost nothing to do now. Let it all get further away. Just the breath.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.