Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for winding down
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 water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
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.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your ankles can go loose now.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Nothing here needs following closely.
Just the weight. You do not have to count them. Let them.
Stay. Let your breathing do the rest. Slower.
Midday is an underrated time for this.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a field under snow, when you want to finish something — for winding down, A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for a restless night or A boat at anchor, when you need something unremarkable — for jet lag.