Sleep story · water, slow
A boat at anchor, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for winding down
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
There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. 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 harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Feel your cheeks let go. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.
Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Just the weight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
The words can start to blur now. You do not have to count them. Slower.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.