Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for an overtired night
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
Lights off. Press begin and let the story read itself to you, at the pace of sleep.
Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.
The story, in full
The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.
The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel your wrists loosen.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Sleep. Just the weight.
Let the quiet be boring. Let the room get slightly further away. Let them.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. The words can start to blur now. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
The end. Sleep well.
20 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.
If this story does not settle you, try A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when nothing else has worked today — for the hours after a late shift, A bus at night, if you are sceptical about all of this — for waking too early or Sleep story: a garden in the rain, if you have done this a hundred times — for jet lag.