Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have done this a hundred times — for jet lag
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
Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound. There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees.
The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on. The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The window is cool against the side of your face. The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea.
Let your hands be completely still. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on. The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Leave it there. They will find their own way out.
You do not have to count them. Stay with the weight of your body. The words can start to blur now.
Nothing here needs following closely. Sleep. Almost nothing to do now.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for travel, cozy.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: an attic room, when you have been on screens all day — for the hours after a late shift, A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night or Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when you are doing this for the first time — for a night when you do not want to think.