Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for a racing mind
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. 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 far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your ankles can go loose now.
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 wrists loosen. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Your chest can be still now. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Just the weight.
Almost nothing to do now. Let the quiet be boring. Let the next part go past without you.
Slower now. Leave it there. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
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 A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are new to this — for the hours after a late shift, A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — for a night when you do not want to think or A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have just finished work — for a racing mind.