Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — 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
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your wrists loosen.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your chest can be still now.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
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.
If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let the quiet be boring. Leave it there.
Let it all get further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay with the weight of your body.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the room get slightly further away. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
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 A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: a bus at night, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a night when you do not want to think or A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for jet lag.