Sleep story · water, slow

A boat at anchor, when you need something unremarkable — 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.

Read it myself

Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.

The story, in full

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 water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your cheeks let go.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. The words can start to blur now.

They will find their own way out. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Nothing here needs following closely.

Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.