Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, when the day has been loud — for an overtired night
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see. 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 seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
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.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
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.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Let your breathing do the rest. Almost nothing to do now.
Let the dark be ordinary. The words can start to blur now. Just the dark.
For days that were loud from the moment they started.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.