Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are tired of apps — for waking too early
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
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 harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel your wrists loosen.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Almost nothing to do now. Just the breath.
Let the dark be ordinary. Slower now. Just the weight.
The words can start to blur now. Just the dark. Let the next part go past without you.
No account, no streak, no notification asking how you feel.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.