A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are tired of apps — for an overtired night

The story, in full

The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your ankles can go loose now.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the mattress take all of it.

The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Just the weight. They will find their own way out. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

No account, no streak, no notification asking how you feel.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.