Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for the hours after a late shift
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 water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your chest can be still now.
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.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Just the weight. Softer.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.