Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you want to be left alone — 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
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
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 mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your wrists loosen.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Your chest can be still now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your hands be completely still.
Let the dark be ordinary. Softer.
Just the weight. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Stay.
Nothing here needs following closely. Just the dark. Let your breathing do the rest.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for waking too early, A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are not in the mood — for waking too early or A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for a night when you do not want to think.