Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for the hours after a late shift
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
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Your chest can be still now.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your hands be completely still.
Just the dark. Let the next part go past without you.
Let them. Leave it there. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Almost nothing to do now. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room, when you are doing this for the first time — for jet lag, An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for winding down or A bus at night, when you want something simple — for an overtired night.