A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for winding down

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. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

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.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.

Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Just the weight. Let the next part go past without you. Stay.

The words can start to blur now. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Almost nothing to do now.

Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.

Let everything get quiet, including this.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.