The Train To The Sleepy Log Cabin

You find yourself standing on a small,

Forgotten platform.

There's mist in the air,

Thick,

Soft and glowing faintly in the moonlight.

You don't remember how you got here,

But you feel calm,

As if you were meant to arrive.

The air smells of old wood,

Cool iron and something faintly sweet like lavender or the memory of a dream.

The world is hushed,

No birds,

No engines,

No wind.

Just the quiet of fog wrapped around the night.

You hear a faint,

Distant whistle and then the sound of wheels slowly turning,

Approaching across invisible tracks.

A train is coming,

Not a modern train,

Not something from this time.

This one is tall,

Dark and mysterious,

Like something from a dream.

It glides towards you slowly,

Its lanterns glowing golden through the fog,

Its wheels humming in rhythm like a heartbeat.

As it draws closer,

You can see the steam curling around its body like breath in cold air,

Wrapping around the cars like silk.

The train slows with a gentle sigh and comes to a complete stop,

Just for you.

The doors open without a sound,

Inside deep wood panels,

Warm golden light and velvet seats.

It feels like a sanctuary,

Like something outside of time.

You step aboard.

The moment you do,

A hush falls over everything behind you.

The door closes and just like that the train begins to move,

Smoothly,

Silently.

You didn't even notice it starting,

But now,

You're gliding forward,

Deeper into the fog.

You take a seat by the window.

The cushion is soft,

The air is warm.

The glass is cool against your fingers,

Outside there's nothing but shifting fog.

Slowly,

Shapes begin to emerge,

Not of the waking world at least.

You're leaving that behind.

You're entering a realm where thoughts dissolve and dreams take shape.

Each mile the train travels brings you deeper into this dream realm.

Each moment you sit,

You feel a little lighter,

A little softer,

As if your body is slowly being unhooked from the weight of the day.

You rest your head back,

The rhythm of the train is gentle,

Like a lullaby in motion.

It rocks slightly as it moves,

Just enough to soothe.

You watch the fog swirl outside the window,

Wrapping around the world like a blanket.

And then you see something,

A shape emerges.

The train passes a vast field of glass flowers,

Yes,

Glass.

Each stem,

Each petal is translucent,

Catching the light of a thousand shimmering shades.

Some look like frost,

Others like coloured crystal.

And as the train rolls past,

You hear the faintest whistle,

Like wind across a chandelier.

You close your eyes for a moment and breathe it in,

Peace,

Stillness,

Wonder.

When you open your eyes again,

The flowers are gone.

Now the train is passing through a tunnel,

But the tunnel glows,

Its walls are covered in softly pulsing blue moss,

Bioluminescent,

Like stars woven into rock.

They flicker as you pass,

Almost as if they are watching you,

Or welcoming you.

This is not a tunnel of darkness,

It's a tunnel of dreams.

And when you come out the other side,

You've crossed a border,

You're somewhere deeper now.

The train slows,

Just slightly,

A voice,

Soft,

Ancient,

Speaks over a hidden speaker.

First stop,

The forest of forgotten songs.

The train eases to a stop,

Outside,

Towering trees stand like ancient guardians,

Their trunks wide and silver,

Their leaves like lace.

You watch as the trees sway gently,

Not with wind,

But with music.

You can't hear the song exactly,

But you can feel it in your chest,

Like the memory of a lullaby.

The fog here is tinged with violet,

Swirling lazily through the trees.

And then you see glowing birds flit between branches,

Each leaving a trail of light behind them.

But you don't get off,

You stay inside the warm safe train.

This stop is only to witness,

To pass through,

You're a traveller here,

Not a resident.

And so the doors close again,

And the train glides forward,

Deeper still.

You let your body sink further into the seat,

Your arms are heavier now,

Your breath slower.

Each breath in brings you comfort,

Each breath out,

You let go a little more.

The rhythm of the train,

The hum of the track,

The lights inside the car glowing dimmer now.

More golden,

More restful.

You're not tired,

You're drifting,

You're floating.

And outside your window,

The fog thickens once more.

Something new takes shape,

This time a still moonlit lake,

With no shore in sight.

The tracks seem to skim the water,

As if the train rides on silver rails that glide just above the surface.

The reflection is perfect,

Your train mirrored in that still water which stretches endlessly below.

And in the lake,

Float lanterns,

Hundreds of them.

Each one carries a memory,

Not yours,

Not exactly,

But memories from dreams that you haven't dreamt yet.

A child laughing beneath falling leaves,

A hand reaching out,

A sunrise on a planet with two moons.

They float beside the train,

Gently bobbing,

Glowing softly in the dark.

And then the lake fades into mist again,

As if it was never there.

But you remember it,

And that's all that matters.

You feel your body now sinking,

The trains warmth wraps around you,

There's no weight to hold,

No tension to carry,

Just breath,

Rest and motion.

The world is quiet now,

The last sounds of your day have drifted into silence,

And somewhere inside of you,

Something lets go.

You don't have to hold anything right now,

You're safe,

You're warm.

Outside,

The scenery slips by like a moving painting.

Fog winds through the trees,

A silver stream glimmers under the moonlight.

Hills rise and fall,

Dotted with dark furs that look like shadows against the sky.

The train rocks gently,

You feel it in your bones.

You don't need to know where you're going,

You don't need to remember where you've been.

You're on the night train right now and it's taking you exactly where you need to go.

You wrap the blanket around your shoulders,

It's soft,

Thick and comforting.

As you hold it close,

You begin to notice the little sounds that shape the journey,

The low hum of the engine in the distance,

The soft rattle of the wheels on the rails,

The occasional creak of the wood as the train leans gently into a turn.

Each sound is a part of a lullaby,

One that has no words,

Only rhythm and presence.

You close your eyes once more,

And when you open them again,

The scenery has changed.

The train is passing through a wide valley where tall grasses sway under the moon,

Fireflies drift above the meadows like floating ambers.

You spot a fox at the edge of the woods,

Watching the train with slow blinking eyes.

Then it turns,

Disappearing into the trees.

You feel even warmer now.

You tuck your feet beneath you,

The blanket hugs you tighter,

There's nothing you need to do,

No decisions to make,

No questions to answer.

The only thing here is peace,

And the quiet unfolding of night.

Time slows down,

And the journey becomes everything.

Trees begin to gather thick again,

Pressing close against the tracks,

Their trunks rise tall and straight.

The fog grows denser,

Curling around the train like smoke from a long forgotten campfire.

But inside,

The light never dims,

And the warmth never fades.

You see lanterns hanging in the trees,

Some high,

Some low,

All glowing with soft golden light.

The feeling they leave behind is one of kindness,

Like the forest itself is watching you,

And wishing you well.

You feel your breath deepen,

You sense your chest rising and falling slowly,

Like the swell of a lake beneath the moonlight.

You are floating now,

Not just in the train,

But in yourself.

Time folds in on itself,

Maybe hours pass,

Or maybe just moments,

It doesn't matter.

What matters is the feeling,

The feeling of being far away from anything loud,

The feeling of being wrapped in quietness,

And knowing that deep down,

This train is taking you somewhere safe.

There's a scent in the air,

A scent of smoke,

Wood and pine sap.

You look out of your window again and see a clearing in the woods,

There's an orange glow in the distance,

And nestled at the edge of a wide,

Quiet lake,

A log cabin.

It's small and perfect,

Warm light pours from its windows,

Smoke curls gently from the stone chimney.

The porch is wrapped in soft string lights that twinkle like stars.

You can see a rocking chair swaying lightly in the breeze,

The train begins to slow,

The sound of the wheels soften.

You feel it,

Like a breath before sleep,

The moment before stillness.

The train pulls up beside a short wooden platform,

A lantern hangs on a crooked post,

Casting a circle of light onto the decking.

There's no one else here,

Only you.

The door opens and you step out.

The air is colder now,

But not unpleasant.

The kind of cold that sharpens your senses and makes warmth feel even better.

You walk slowly toward the cabin,

Your feet crunch on a path of pine needles and soft gravel.

The scent of the woods wraps around you,

Earth,

Smoke,

Bark and evergreen.

Owls call softly in the trees,

The lake ripples in the lightest breeze.

You step up onto the porch,

The wooden boards creak gently beneath your weight.

You reach for the handle of the door and it turns easily as you open it.

And inside,

A fire glows in the hearth,

Thick rugs cover the wooden floor,

A kettle steams on the stove,

There's a bed tucked against the wall,

Layered in blankets and quilts.

This is your place,

Your shelter,

Your still point in the turning world.

You step inside,

Closing the door behind you,

And the quiet folds around you.

The fire in the hearth crackles softly,

Throwing golden shadows on the walls.

The scent of burning pine mixes with the warm,

Earthy aroma of the old wooden beams.

It smells like time has slowed down here,

Like stories once told still linger in the corners.

Like sleep is welcomed.

You slip off your shoes and step onto a thick wool rug,

It's soft beneath your feet,

The kind of softness that seems to pull the tension right out of your ankles,

Your knees and your spine.

The rocking chair sits by the fire,

You walk over to it,

You ease into the seat and it fits you perfectly.

You begin to rock slowly,

Back and forth,

The movement syncing with your breath,

With the fire,

With something older than thought.

Outside,

Snow has begun to fall,

Not hard,

Just a whisper of white,

Drifting from the stars.

The flakes catch in the cabins porch light,

Like sparks from a far off dream.

Inside,

The air is perfectly still,

Time feels like it's stretched thin here,

Suspended in the perfect quiet.

You're not tired anymore,

You're beyond tired,

You're heavy in the best way.

The rocking slows,

Your body slows with it,

And for a long time,

You do nothing but watch the flames,

Their light flickering across the walls,

Like soft brush strokes on a canvas.

Then you rise,

You walk slowly across the room to the bed,

With heavy footsteps,

Each step is deliberate,

Each breath is deeper.

The bed is layered in thick sheets,

Soft cotton pillows and a patchwork quilt that smells faintly of cedar and lavender.

You pull back the covers and climb in,

Instantly,

Your whole body sighs.

The mattress is firm but forgiving.

The pillows cradle your head,

The warmth begins to gather around you,

Like a tide.

You nestle deeper,

Pulling the blanket up to your chin.

Outside the window,

The snow continues to fall,

Quiet and endless.

Inside,

The fire hums,

Steady and low.

You lie there,

There is no thinking,

No doing or being,

Just breathing.

And then you feel it.

Sleep is coming,

Not quickly or suddenly,

But very gently.

Like fog drifting over water,

Like shadows deepening into twilight.

As your eyes begin to close,

The walls of the cabin begin to fade,

Not disappearing,

Just softening.

The space around you becoming less solid and more dreamlike.

The crackle of the fire stretches and blurs,

Turning into the distant sound of a waterfall.

The wind outside begins to hum.

And in that hum,

You hear something ancient,

Something kind.

The line between the real and the remembered begins to bend.

And you are floating now,

Not in air,

Not in water,

But,

And then a dream begins.

But it's not the same train,

This one is slower and quieter.

It's windows are made of glass that shifts with the colour of your breath.

It's seats are made of something that feels like cloud and velvet.

There are no other passengers,

Only you.

You look out of the window and see the stars moving,

Not overhead,

But beside you.

As if the train is riding through space,

Skimming just above the curve of the world.

Galaxies bloom like flowers in slow motion,

Moons rise and fall like drifting petals.

You pass over mountains made of light and rivers.

The world has stopped being solid,

Now it's only feeling,

Only rest,

Yeah,

You are sleep itself.

You begin to feel yourself drift,

Layer by layer,

Deeper into peace.

There is no more need to think as you sink into stillness,

All dissolve into the warmth behind your eyelids.

You lie there beneath the quilt,

Warm,

The flicker of the fire dances behind your eyelids.

The cabin breathes with you,

Slow,

Deep and quiet.

And now,

Your attention drifts to your body,

Not as a command,

Not as something you must do,

But like watching leaves float by on a slow moving stream.

You follow them,

One by one,

Gently and without effort.

Your awareness first settles at the crown of your head,

That light space where thought used to live.

Now,

Just stillness,

Like a moon rising above clouds.

It drifts downwards,

Softening your forehead,

The muscles there now loose.

Your eyes sink deeper into your sockets,

Heavy and still,

The skin around them smooths.

Your jaw releases,

That little place where tension used to hide is now open.

Your tongue rests gently behind your teeth,

Nothing to say,

Nothing to clench.

Only an easiness,

The passage of your breath in your neck and throat,

Soften.

Each breath like a wave lapping the shore of sleep.

Your shoulders feel different now,

They release as if someone gently unhooked you from carrying anything at all.

And from there,

Your arms,

The heaviness begins to bloom.

This is the heaviness of surrender,

Of peace.

Your upper arms,

Elbows,

Forearms and wrists,

All sinking.

Even your fingers,

One by one,

Melt into stillness,

As if each fingertip is being calmed by the darkness.

Tucked beneath the blanket of night,

Your chest rises slowly,

And falls even slower.

Inside your chest there is nothing but warmth,

No edges,

No tightness,

Just quiet.

Your belly rises too,

Just a little with each breath,

And falls again,

Like a leaf settling to the earth,

Soft,

Loose and at peace.

Now your back stretches beneath you,

Like soft ground,

The firelight behind your eyelids flickers over your spine,

Vertebrae by vertebrae,

The whole line unwinds.

Any weight lifted,

Your hips now feel heavier,

Grounded and safe.

And then your thighs,

The warmth from the quilt seeps into the muscles,

Melting the skin down,

Layer by layer.

Your knees relax,

Your calves give way.

Even the backs of your knees,

Those small,

Often forgotten places,

Loose and free.

Your ankles soften,

The weight flows out of your heels,

The arches of your feet stretch and relax.

And finally your toes,

Each one falling into silence,

As if they've walked enough.

And now they're home,

You are home,

Your entire body,

From crown to sole,

Is no longer a collection of parts.

It is whole,

Bathing in stillness,

Heaviness and safety.

Your mind becomes quiet,

Any thoughts no longer buzz,

They flicker gently and fade,

Like fireflies blinking once in the dark,

Then disappearing into the trees.

There is nothing left to do,

Except sleep.