Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for jet lag
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
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 lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let your breathing do the rest.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. You can stop listening properly.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.