Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you need something unremarkable — for a restless 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 far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your chest can be still now.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the dark be ordinary.
The words can start to blur now. Slower. Let them.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.