Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for an overtired night
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 air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Leave it there. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Just the breath.
They will find their own way out. Let the next part go past without you. Let them.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train (a sleep story), if you are tired of apps — for a night when you do not want to think, The house after everyone is asleep, if you are tired of apps — for a night when you do not want to think or A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for an overtired night.