Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — 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. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. 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. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Your chest can be still now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
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.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Just the dark. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Softer. Let them. Let the quiet be boring.
The words can start to blur now. Let your breathing do the rest. Stay with the weight of your body.
Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
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 sleep story), after eating too much — for a restless night, A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you need something unremarkable — for jet lag or Sleep story: a bus at night, when you are on your own — for winding down.