Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, if you have five quiet minutes — for a restless 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
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. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
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.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your chest can be still now.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
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.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Just the dark. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Sleep. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your breathing do the rest.
Five quiet minutes is enough. Ten is generous.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.