Sleep story · sea, simple
A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for jet lag
Thin walls, wind outside, and the sound of shingle about fifty metres away.
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 whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.
You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor. There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years. The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your ankles can go loose now.
The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle. There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Just the weight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
You can stop listening properly. Let them. Just the dark.
You do not have to count them. The words can start to blur now. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.