Sleep story · sea, simple
A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere noisy — 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 wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years. Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying.
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. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Stay with the weight of your body. Stay.
Let the quiet be boring. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. You can stop listening properly.
Noise is fine. You are not trying to hear anything subtle.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, simple.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when you are not in the mood — for an overtired night, A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — for waking too early or A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for winding down.