Sleep story · travel, cozy
The night train, if you are new to this — for a restless night
Somewhere between two cities, in the dark, where nobody needs anything from you.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The lights along the aisle are dimmed to the colour of weak tea. 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.
Your bag is wedged under the seat in front, out of the way of your feet. 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.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
A station passes without stopping — a platform, a lamp, three empty benches, then dark again. The rhythm underneath you is steady enough to lean on.
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.
Your chest can be still now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Every so often the wheels change their note as they cross a join in the rail. The heating is on low, and the air smells faintly of clean metal and old upholstery.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Outside, the fields go past without anything in them you need to see. The window is cool against the side of your face.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let your breathing do the rest. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Almost nothing to do now. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Sleep. Just the weight. You do not have to count them.
Nothing here assumes you have done this before.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.