Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for a night when you do not want to think
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 sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your hands be completely still. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
They will find their own way out. The words can start to blur now.
Leave it there. Stay. Just the weight.
Just the breath. You can stop listening properly. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room, when you are doing this for the first time — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, on a day that started badly — for the hours after a late shift or A boat at anchor (a sleep story), after eating too much — for jet lag.