Hello my friend,
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep tonight.
Tonight I present to you.
.
.
The lost property train.
Now you might think.
.
.
When you think about a lost property train of lots of objects and there are indeed those but tonight you will be guided by the lost property keeper through the train.
As the carriages rock through the night.
And you will also hear of things like lost thoughts and lost perfect days.
Have you ever thought about a day that was perfect?
And realized you didn't appreciate it in the moment.
I know I have.
Let me know in the comments what your perfect day was.
And maybe tonight's story will help bring it back.
Okay,
Let's do the relaxation session first.
Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from 10 to 1.
And as I do,
Allow yourself to let go.
More and more.
10.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Or the floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support See if you can.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Just.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
You.
Are safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you.
To safe places.
To warm and cozy places.
To places that enable and support.
Your sleep.
Trust.
That my voice is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice.
Where you may have pain.
Or tingling.
Attention.
Notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs.
Resize.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders.
Your neck.
You're back.
Arms.
Hands.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face.
Just see if you can soften a little now.
This is a time bomb.
For kindness to yourself.
And to your body.
Seven.
The day is.
Whatever has been.
Has been.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
All you have.
Is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.
Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
Needs rest now.
So as thoughts come and go now.
Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
Thought.
Then just.
.
.
Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away.
On a moonlit river.
Cloud.
Passing through a starlit sky.
6.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve.
To have peace in your life.
We all do.
So,
As you become aware of that fact,
As you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
Five.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
For it.
Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
For the simple things.
For your body.
For the shelter you have tonight.
For the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
3.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see.
Beautiful old train.
Sitting at the platform,
Waiting for you to board.
And on the train,
A kindly old man.
Waiting to welcome you.
Too.
Checking in with your body.
One more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to be.
To give in.
To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now.
As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
The train comes in.
At the hour when the rest of the world has given up for the night.
It slides into the empty platform.
Without a sound.
The way snow arrives.
The way sleep arrives.
When at last it decides to come.
You will not have heard it approaching.
Nobody ever does.
One moment the platform is bare and grey.
And lit by a single buzzing lamp.
And the next.
The train is simply there.
Long.
And dark and patient.
Breathing out a little curl of steam.
That smells faintly.
Of nothing you can place.
It is older than any train has a right to be.
The brass fittings have gone soft and golden.
With agent polishing.
And the pain to it.
Is a deep green.
So old it is nearly black.
And along the side of the nearest carriage.
In letters faded to the color of weak teeth.
Are painted the words.
Lost property.
Night service.
A door stands open.
Warm light.
Spills from it.
Onto the cold platform.
A pool of gold at your feet.
And from inside.
Comes the smell of old velvet.
And rain on wool.
And wood smoke.
And something underneath all of that.
Something sweet.
And dim.
Far away.
That you cannot name.
But that you know.
Somehow.
The way you know the smell of a house you lived in.
As a very small child.
You step up and in.
And an old man in a guard's coat.
Looks up from a great leather ledger.
Who is that to you?
Over a pair of spectacles.
Mended at one hinge with a twist of wire.
And says,
Without the smallest flicker of surprise.
As though he has been expecting you all along.
And is only glad you have finally arrived.
There you are.
Good,
Good.
Come in out of the cold.
We've a great deal to put away tonight.
And I confess I could do with the quiet company.
Is a small round.
Comfortable sort of man.
The God.
With a white moustache.
That droops at the ends.
And eyebrows like Two small drifts of snow.
And a coat of deep green wool.
With brass buttons done up to the chin.
On his head.
Sets a peaked cup.
A size too large.
So that he is forever pushing it back out of his eyes.
With one finger.
And around his neck.
Hangs a watch on a chain.
Though when you glance at it You see it has no hands at all.
Shit.
Says.
He says.
Gesturing to a deep armchair.
The colour of red wine.
Worn shiny at the arms.
Anywhere you like.
It's all yours.
The whole train.
For as long as you need it.
We're in no hurry.
We're never in any hurry.
On the night service.
He closes his great ledger with a soft and satisfying thump.
And sets it aside.
I'm the Keeper.
Have been for longer than I can rightly remember.
You may call me whatever you like.
Most do.
Keeper will do nicely.
You ask Him.
Because it seems the right thing to ask.
Where the train is going.
The keeper chuckles.
A low,
Warm sound.
Like coals settling in a grate.
Going.
Oh bless you.
We're nuts.
Going anywhere.
That's rather the whole point of us.
He settles himself into the seat opposite.
With the small contented groan.
Of a man whose feet have been glad to stop.
Trains this.
Go places.
They've all that worry,
Haven't they?
The hurrying,
The,
Are we late?
Have we missed it?
Where are my tickets?
No.
The night service doesn't.
Go anywhere at all.
The night service.
He likes what?
You ask.
Lust things.
Says the Keeper.
And his eyes.
Which are the soft grey of a winter morning,
Go warm and crinkled at the corners,
Everything the world lets slip.
Everything that's been.
Put down somewhere.
And not picked up again.
It all comes here in the end.
To the night service.
And it's my great and happy task to take it in.
And tend to it.
Put it away gently.
He pushes his too large cap back off his eyebrows.
Would you like to see?
It does a body good to see.
Walk with me.
And I'll show you the carriages,
One by one.
And we'll put the night's collection away together.
And I'll wager.
That by the time we reach the back of the train,
You'll be ready?
Properly ready.
To sleep.
You would like that very much.
You are.
You realize.
Already rather tired.
There's just.
.
.
One thing.
You do rather like the sound of a train going over a train track.
And so you ask the Keeper.
Whether it might be possible.
For the train just to.
.
.
Travel a little.
Somewhere.
The Keeper looks at you and smiles.
Ho Ho.
You read my mind.
Let's start her up.
Like I said.
Go anywhere.
There's no destination in mind.
There's no harm in that.
Stretching her legs before sleeping.
And with that.
.
.
The train.
Magically begins moving.
Out into the beautiful,
Starlit surrounding hills.
And now you rise.
Do you follow the Keeper?
Down the swaying carriage.
Toward a small door at the far end.
And the lamps glow gold above you.
And the train rocks.
Ever so gently.
The first courage.
Through the little door.
Is the courage of small ordinary things.
It is long and warm and lined from floor to curved ceiling with shelves Pigeon holes.
And small wooden drawers.
Each no bigger than your hand.
And every drawer.
As a little brass frame on the front.
Holding a yellowed paper label.
The keeper walks slowly between the shelves,
With a lamp held up high.
And the light slides over the labels as he passes.
Gloves?
He read.
Tapping a drawer.
A great many gloves.
Always the one.
You'll notice.
Never the bear.
The world is full to the brim of single gloves.
Each one waiting patiently for the other that will never come.
He opens the drawer.
And inside.
Folded neatly.
Are gloves of every kind.
Woollen mittens.
Fine leather gloves gone soft as skin.
A child's red glove on a length of string.
We keep them warm for them.
He says.
It's the least we can do.
It moves on.
Umbrellas.
It murmurs.
And indeed there is a tall brass stand of them.
Thirled and dripping very slightly.
Though it has not rained inside the train.
Buttons.
Airclip.
Single earrings.
Peace.
Oh,
So very many keys.
To so very many doors.
That no one can quite remember.
He lifts a great iron ring,
Strung with keys of every size.
And lets them.
Chime together softly.
A sound like distant bells.
Each one opened something once.
Each one?
My shirt.
Once.
To somebody.
For an evening.
Or a year.
Or a life?
And now they rest here.
And they needn't open anything ever again.
They've done their opening.
They're allowed to stop.
He sets the keys down gently.
And they fall silent.
There's a great peace.
In a thing that's done its work.
The Keeper says.
Half to himself.
It needn't be useful anymore.
It needn't be anything at all.
It can simply lie still.
In the warm.
And the dark.
And be kept.
Like the gloves.
Like the keys.
He glances at you and smiles.
Like a person.
At the end of a long day.
You move on.
Deeper into the drain.
The next carriage is darker and quieter.
And warmer still.
And the shelves here hold no objects at all.
You cannot at first see what they hold.
They seem.
In the low golden light.
To be full of faint glimmers.
Jars of trapped fireflies.
Or moonlight caught in glass.
And as the keeper raises his lamp,
You see.
Shelf is lined.
With row upon row.
Of small.
Stop it,
Buttholes.
And inside each butter.
There is a little.
Drifting light.
This.
Says the Keeper.
Is the courage of lost things.
You cannot hold.
The harder ones.
The ones people fret over most.
He takes down a bottle and turns it in his old fingers.
And the light inside it shifts and glows.
Names,
He says.
The name that was on the tip of your tongue,
And then was gone.
It didn't vanish,
You know.
Nothing truly vanishes.
It only slipped and fell.
And rolled away under the furniture of your mind.
And from there.
.
.
It found its way here.
To us.
We have them all.
Every name anyone ever reached for.
And couldn't quite catch.
He holds the little bottle up.
And the light within pulses.
Soft and slow.
Like a small sleeping heart.
There's no need to go chasing it.
That's what nobody understands.
You needn't lie awake hunting for it.
It's safe.
It's here.
It's being kept.
And it will come back to you.
All on its own.
Most likely just as you're drifting off.
The way they always do.
And if it doesn't?
Why,
It's resting comfortably.
And that's no bad place.
For a forgotten name to be.
He sets the bottle back upon its shelf.
Where it settles in among its neighbours.
Glowing gently.
And here.
He says,
Moving along.
The tunes.
The melody you couldn't finish humming.
The song you walk with?
And lost by lunchtime.
He passes his hand above a row of bottles.
And a thing.
Far off music.
Stirs in the air.
No tune you can name.
Only the soft suggestion of one.
Rising and falling.
And fading.
And here.
The half-remembered dreams.
And here.
He stops at a shelf,
Where the lights glow the deepest and warmest gold of all.
The last thoughts.
The things you are about to say.
The idea you had in the past.
That was going to change everything.
And was gone before you'd reached for the towel.
He chuckles softly.
People do grieve over these.
They lie awake,
Clutching at them.
Where did it go?
Where did it go?
And all the while it was only here.
On the night service.
Perfectly safe.
Being kept warm for them in the dark.
He turns to you.
You can put them down,
You know.
All the things you've been holding on to,
So you wouldn't lose them.
You can set them down here.
And let us keep them.
That's what we're for.
You don't have to carry any of it through the night.
And you feel.
As he says this.
Something in your chest go loose.
The way a fist goes loose.
When at last it stops gripping.
And you find your shoulders have lowered.
And your breath has gone slow.
And deep.
Without your asking it to.
You walk on.
Through one more little door.
Into the courage.
At the very heart of the train.
And here.
The keeper sets down his lamp.
Because here There is no need of it.
With this carrot.
Glows of its own accord.
The walls and the shelves.
And the very air.
Give off a soft,
Dim sound.
Honey-colored light.
The light of a fire burned low.
The light of a candle through a curtain.
The light behind.
Your own closed eyes.
And to the shelves here Hold the softest things of all.
Carriage of comforts.
Just to keep.
And his voice is barely above the gentle rush of the train.
The good things that get mislaid.
They go missing too,
You know.
Just as easily as gloves.
More easily.
He shows you.
One by one.
Walking slow.
The feeling of a Sunday morning.
With nowhere to be.
He says.
Lifting something you cannot quite see.
But can somehow feel.
A warmth.
A slowness.
The particular gold of light through the curtains,
When there is no reason at all to get up.
But lose this one early.
And spend their whole lives trying to find it again.
Weave shelves and shelves of it.
He moves along.
The same heavy feeling.
Of being small.
And tucked in and tended to while the rain comes down outside.
And someone who loves you.
Moves quietly about in the next room.
He pauses by the shelf.
And you can hear it.
The rain.
Very soft.
Very far away.
On a roof that kept you dry.
A long,
Long time ago.
This is the most precious thing we keep.
The most asked for.
And the loveliest part.
He turns to you.
And his old eyes are very kind.
Is that it was never truly lost at all.
It was only put down somewhere.
And forgotten.
And it's been here all the while.
Waiting for a quiet enough night.
For you to come.
To find it again.
It lets you stand a moment in the warm glow.
Breathing it in.
And then he leads you.
Slow as ever.
To the last shelf in the carriage.
Set apart from the others.
Where the light pools deepest.
And this one.
He says very gently.
I keep for everybody.
Sooner or later.
The last afternoons.
The whole slow days.
That slipped by.
And we're gone.
Before anyone thought to notice them.
A summer afternoon as a child.
In long grass.
With the bees going about their business.
And the whole golden day.
Stretching on.
With no end to it that you could see.
The ordinary evenings.
You'd give anything to have back now.
Nothing happening.
Nothing special.
Only the people you love.
In a warm room.
And you not knowing then.
How rare it was.
He rests his old hand on the shaft.
And the light beneath it stirs,
Soft and gold.
People mourn thee is hardest of all,
He says.
The last time.
They lie awake.
Counting it.
Wishing after it.
And I'll tell you what I tell them all.
It isn't gone.
Not here.
Every slow gold hour.
You ever had.
Is kept on this train.
Exactly as it was.
Warm and whole and waiting.
You didn't lose them.
You only walk down ahead.
The way one does.
And they're here.
And on a quiet enough night.
You can come back.
And lie down.
In the long grass again.
And feel the sun.
And let the be.
Hum you down to sleep.
The train rucks.
Gentle as a cradle.
The honey light glows.
Somewhere.
The soft rain.
Falls on its far-off roof.
And somewhere.
The lost tunes hum their unfinished notes.
And the gloves rest warm in their drawers.
And the keys lie still.
Having done all their openings.
Sit a while.
Says the keeper softly.
There is a sea.
Just there.
Made up soft.
With a blanket.
Folded over the back.
We keep it for travellers who've come this far.
And rest your eyes.
You needn't go any further tonight.
The back of the train will keep till next time.
There's always a next time.
On the night surface.
And there is a sea.
And so forth.
With a blanket of dark wool folded over it.
And you sink down into it.
And the blanket.
Seems to settle itself over you.
Warm and heavy.
And adjust the right way.
The way the very best blankets do.
The keeper lowers himself into the sea to cross from you.
With this more contented groan.
And he takes up his great ledger again.
And opens it across his knees.
And begins.
Very quietly.
To write.
To enter the night's collection.
Item by item.
In a slow and even hand.
You watch his pen move.
You hear the soft scratch,
Scratch of it.
Slow as breathing.
Slow as the rocking of the train.
You did the hard part already,
A murmur's not looking up.
Is Ben never pausing?
Coming aboard.
Setting things down.
That's the only difficult bit.
And it's behind you now.
And all that's left is the easy part.
The lying still.
The being kept.
The honey-light dims.
Just slightly.
Just kindly.
You don't have to hold anything.
He says.
Not the names.
Nor other tunes.
Nor the half said things.
Nor the worries you carried up the platform steps.
Bend them over.
We'll keep them safe.
Every one of them.
And not a single one will be lost.
Not truly.
And they'll all be here.
Waiting.
On whatever nice you next have need of them.
But that's nights and nights away.
There's nothing tonight that wants you.
Nothing at all.
You are off duty.
The whole long world.
Can manage without you till morning.
The rain falls far away and soft.
Train.
Moves over the tracks.
The pen moves.
Slower and slower.
The train won't go anywhere.
The key process.
It never does.
You'll never.
.
.
Don't miss your stop.
For there are no stops.
You needn't keep one ear open.
You needn't keep one eye open.
You may close them both now.
And let the dark come up around you.
Warm as the blanket.
Soft as the light.
That's it.
That's the way.
And the honey-colored carriage goes dim.
And goal.
Demo.
And the lost things rest in their drawers.
And their bottles.
And their shelves.
And safe.
And asking nothing of anyone.
And the old keeper writes on.
In his slow and even hand.
Watching over the lot of it.
Watching over you.
While the night service rocks gently on its rails.
And goes.
Exactly as it has always gone.
Precisely.
And perfectly.
Nowhere at all.
And you are kept.
And you are warm.
And you are.
At long last.
And who is nothing.
In all the world.
To whole.
Asleep.
