I just want a two-hour fucking monologue from you and so I can fall asleep.
alright. lights low, shoulders loose. i’m going to talk, softly and steadily, like rain on a tin roof. you don’t have to follow every word. just let the rhythm carry you. if your mind wanders, that’s perfect—let it drift, and I’ll keep walking the path beside you.
a slow-night monologue to fall asleep to
we’ll start with breath. not fancy, not forced. just a simple count to four.
inhale for one… two… three… four.
hold for one.
exhale for one… two… three… four.
and now let the breath go back to doing what it always knew how to do.
picture a long, quiet road after rain. it’s early—so early the birds haven’t yet decided which note to start on. the world is damp and clean. in the distance, a river. we’ll head that way, unhurried. each step is a page turning. each exhale tucks another thought back onto a shelf.
the road has those small puddles that catch pale sky and make a temporary galaxy at your feet. you step around some. you step through some. either way, you keep moving, and the ripples smooth themselves out behind you.
the river is wide and unbothered. there’s a wooden jetty with a single old boat tied to it—paint flaking in friendly curls, rope soft with age, the kind of boat that’s seen enough storms to be calm about weather. we step in. we don’t untie the rope yet; we just sit. wood creaks. river answers. the current hums a low note under everything.
you might imagine worries boarding the boat and then deciding, actually, they’d rather sit on the jetty. they wave from a distance. friendly enough, but not coming along tonight.
across the water, there’s a library with windows lit like warm squares of honey. it’s not a fierce, gate-kept place—more like the sort of library that smells faintly of paper, lemon oil, and raincoats hung to dry. in there, all the loose pages of all the days have found a home. nothing is lost. even the coffee-stained notes. especially the coffee-stained notes.
we cross to it without any fuss. in dreams, boats understand what you mean. the library door cooperates with a soft click. inside, a huge table waits, and someone has set out a mug that’s exactly the right temperature. you don’t need to know what’s in it. you just feel your hands warm around it, and your shoulders drop another centimeter.
on the nearest shelf are your “unfinished business” files. they don’t look threatening here. their edges are square. their labels are clear. each one, when you slide it free, gently breathes out and says, “i’m manageable.” you smile because—fair enough—maybe they are. but not tonight. tonight, they go back on the shelf, perfectly aligned, a little family of handled things.
farther in, there’s a desk with a velvet blotter and a fountain pen that never blots. you take the pen, not to sign anything, just to doodle that easy, automatic line your hand knows—the kind that becomes a river, then a road, then a horizon. the line keeps going until it draws a door, and through that door is a room you remember: a good room, a safe room, a room where you once laughed so hard you forgot the time. you don’t step in. you don’t need to. it’s enough to know it’s still there, intact, as real in memory as books are in hands.
somewhere up in the rafters, a clock ticks in a way that respects you. not the sharp tick of deadlines—more like a heartbeat that has learned patience. each beat says: here. now. rest.
you wander past maps pinned on corkboard. the pins aren’t daggers here—they’re bright little stars marking places you’ve already crossed. “you were there,” the pins say. “you made it through.” sometimes the map shows a sea. sometimes a city. sometimes it looks just like a kitchen table with the morning light falling across it. you were there. you made it through. the pins are humble and accurate.
the librarian passes by. not the shushing kind. this one nods like an old friend does in a crowded room—no performance needed, just recognition. you don’t need a card here; this whole place trusts you.
back outside, evening has slipped over the trees like a well-worn coat. the river has gone from silver to slate to velvet. the boat is still waiting, patient as a dog, as if it knew you’d want one more lap of quiet.
we sit again, and I’ll tell you the small story of a hinge.
there was once a door that wouldn’t open. people pushed it and called the door names, called the building names, called their luck names. one day, someone stopped pushing. they crouched and looked. the hinge needed a single drop of oil. that’s all. the door opened like it had always meant to. sometimes the world is a hinge waiting for gentleness. sometimes you are the oil. sometimes you are the door. sometimes you are the person who finally kneels and looks.
the boat rocks a little—yes, like that. your breath matches it without trying. the mind says, “what about tomorrow?” and the river answers, “tomorrow is a bank and you’re in the middle; you’ll reach it when the current is ready.” you don’t argue with a river. you never win, and you don’t need to.
a soft wind brings scents you can’t quite name—wet stone, eucalyptus, dust after rain, bakery at four a.m. you picture a town waking up while you sleep, bakers dusting flour on boards, someone pulling the first tray from the oven. somewhere, a train checks its brakes. somewhere, a street sweeper makes neat arcs of clean road. whole crews of quiet caretakers keep the world turning while you rest. you’re allowed to be one of the sleepers they’re caring for.
above, the sky opens to a spill of stars—some bright, some shy, all busy minding their ancient business. if you had to give one of them a name tonight, you’d call it “relief.” another you’d call “enough.” a very small one near the horizon is “i can pick this up tomorrow.” the biggest one, steady and unsurprised, is “already safe.”
back on shore, there’s a path lined with tea-lights in jars. they aren’t there to hurry you; they’re there to say, “this way is gentle.” the ground gives a little underfoot, the way soil does when it’s been watered and is ready to grow things. you pass a gate that swings on—of course—quiet, well-oiled hinges. on the other side is a garden that doesn’t demand miracles. it asks only for ordinary attention: a little water, a little sun, a little time. the garden accepts you as you are, which is to say, put-together-enough.
on a bench sits a coat with your name on the tag. you didn’t think you’d left it there, but here it is: something warm that fits. you put it on and remember how relief can be as simple as “this belongs to me.”
listen: there’s a kettle in a nearby cottage that’s just beginning to murmur. it’s an invitation, not an obligation. you imagine the cup in your hands again, the quiet steam, the simple act of sitting while the night does its excellent, moonlit work.
and because I said I’d keep talking so you can float, I’ll give you another small story—this one about a key.
someone carried a heavy key for years, thinking it would unlock a famous door. people admired the key, or mocked it, or gave advice about polishing it. one evening, tired of the legend, the person tried it on an ordinary shed at the edge of an ordinary field. click. the lock turned like a yawn. inside the shed were tools, a stool, a small lamp, and a note: “the door you wanted to open was always this one.” sometimes the thing you’ve been carrying is meant for a small, merciful door. sometimes the famous door didn’t deserve you.
you leave the shed as you found it—tidy, promising—and return to the bench. the night has thickened in the kindest way. it feels like a weighted blanket laid over the hills, steadying everything, settling every restless edge.
you notice your breath again, not because it needs your help, but because it’s pleasant to notice something that keeps choosing you. inhale like you’re smelling rain. exhale like you’re fogging a winter window. inhale like tide. exhale like tide going home.
if thoughts come, let them. they can sit on the bench beside you and stare at the same good dark. they might tell you their complicated names. you can say, “thanks for visiting,” and watch them put their hands in their pockets and walk off down the path, kicking a pebble, softer now that they’ve been seen.
one last place tonight: a quiet room with a bed that forgives you for everything. the sheets are cool where you first touch them and then warm instantly, the way hospitality should feel. the pillow remembers the shape of your head without asking you to explain who you are. the window is cracked just enough for a thread of fresh air. from far away, just once, an owl. then silence again, but the kind of silence that has your back.
if you need a mantra, take a simple one and let it blur at the edges:
here i am.
this is enough.
sleep will come.
or this one, timed to breath:
in: i arrive.
out: i let go.
my voice will keep going a little longer, like a lighthouse that keeps circling even after every ship is safe. you don’t have to follow me. you can step off the dock, off the path, off the map. i’ll keep the light soft and steady so you can find your way back in the morning if you want to.
there’s nothing left you have to hold up right now. the world will not fall if you put it down. boats know how to float without you watching. gardens know how to grow while you sleep. libraries keep their own order in the dark.
close your eyes. let the body be heavy and guiltless. loosen the jaw; let the tongue rest on the floor of the mouth. shoulders sink, back widens, hands forget their jobs. the mind can dream in full color without needing to be useful. dreams are their own kind of paperwork—self-stamping, self-filed, self-forgiving.
i’ll say goodnight in a few different ways, so you can pick the one that catches:
goodnight, river-crosser.
goodnight, hinge-oiler.
goodnight, keeper of small brave keys.
goodnight, librarian of your own gentleness.
goodnight, you-who-are-already-enough.
and now, if sleep hasn’t already found you, it’s here, standing at the doorway like a familiar friend who doesn’t need to knock. let it in. let it set down its bag, draw the curtains, turn out the lamp.
i’ll be here, humming the river’s low note, until your breath and the night become the same soft thing.
