Sleep story · sea, simple
A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for the hours after a late shift
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
There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.
The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night. The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Feel your cheeks let go.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. The words can start to blur now.
Slower. Just the weight. Slower now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing here needs following closely.
Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for winding down, A kitchen late at night, when you need something unremarkable — for jet lag or A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when the day has been loud — for a restless night.