Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you need something unremarkable — for waking too early
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. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. 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.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the mattress take all of it.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your hands be completely still.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Slower. You can stop listening properly.
Let the next part go past without you. Nothing here needs following closely. Stay with the weight of your body.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.