Night Stories #1:

Our beds wait for us, ready to wrap up us up in warmth and comfort. A place to rest when all the world’s weariness and wanting gets to be just a bit too much.

Night Stories #6:

The birds sing me slow songs when I’m tired. Long low coos that bring me closer to when I can finally close my eyes. The birds encourage me to relax, to breathe. My pillow waits for me like a calling. The bird’s nest on the nightstand by my bed holds three blue eggs waiting for morning. Like the birds, I only seek to go home. To rest. To find peace.

Night Stories #10:

In the center of the forest, your respite is ready. One with the woods, the bed can no longer be separated from the moss that grows underneath. The pristine white sheets promise to sooth your weary bones. To sing your soul’s song. After days of feeling lost, in this bed you will be found. The woodland creatures say it will be so.

Night Stories #3:

The lightness that I seek is whispered as a promise from my bed. Nighttime is where I’ll find the things I’ve lost.

Night Stories #7:

The forest’s magic touches the screens of the night porch where my bed awaits. The moonlight glints off the fairy dust that was left behind. Lethargic breezes softly shift the white curtains, beckoning me home. The bed softly calls it’s siren song, the pillow waiting to caress my head, heavier by the moment.

Night Stories #11:

The lingering feeling of possibility gently lights the path to my bed. Energy reaches from the stars outside, signalling that yes, dreams will revisit you again. That darkness isn’t the only thing outside these walls. Inside these walls, wisps of gratitude and grace circulate in the air, looking for a place to settle. All that’s left to do is lay your head on the pillow that awaits, soft and warm, whispering that a new tomorrow will come.

Night Stories #4:

My bed waits beneath the window, moonlight shining through the panes. The pink curtains softly blow from the promise of blissful sleep. A firefly watches just outside the window, flying between the purple coneflowers that promise healing.

Night Stories #8:

Sleep begins to wash over me. I toss my hair band to the floor, place the book to the side. I curl up, knees tucked to my chest and pressing against me like an embrace that reminds me that I, too, am loved.

Night Stories #12:

The book is finished now. It held me in its thrall for days, breaking the fever of endless dopamine distraction. By my bed the book held a place of honor, a symbol that yes, I am moving forward. Forward through its pages, forward through this life. The book saved me, and my bed with its promise of soothing comfort ensures that the momentum will continue.

Night Stories #5:

A darkened bedroom, the air heavy with the gradual acceptance that life is different now. More simple. More bare. It’s joyful in its own heartbreaking way. Never again will I look at this room like it’s the place where great dreams are born. It’s now the place that holds me gently, that comforts me, that wishes me nothing but one night’s sound sleep. The painting on the wall is of a single daisy, simple, like my soul now. The window slightly ajar lets the perfume inside from dark blue flowers lingering in the moonlit garden. Sleep is waiting for me here.

Night Stories #9:

White sheets cleanse me of all of the debris of the day. The moments I walked through, the whispers that blew by, the ashes of burning resentments. When the sheets envelope me, it’s a baptism. It’s freedom.

Night Stories #13:

Sleep is on the other side of the undulating ocean. To get to your destination, you will need to swim through the ages of time. It will take you a while, but when you reach your goal, the soft warm sheets will be waiting for you, crumpled by the dreams you had last night. You didn’t make the bed. Why would you when you have an ocean yet to swim through?