Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for waking too early
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The seat reclines one notch further than you expected it to. There is one other person in this carriage, four rows up, asleep with a coat over their knees. The window is cool against the side of your face.
The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again. The train left a quarter of an hour ago, and the carriage has already settled into its own quiet.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery. Somewhere ahead of you, a door opens and closes with a soft, deliberate sound.
Let the mattress take all of it. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail. The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your palms open if they were closed.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
You do not have to count them. The words can start to blur now.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Sleep.
Let it all get further away. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the quiet be boring.
When concentration is gone, work with what is left.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.