Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for a night when you do not want to think
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 air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. 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. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
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.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Let your breathing do the rest. Stay with the weight of your body.
Let the room get slightly further away. Almost nothing to do now. Just the breath.
Just the weight. Stay. Let the next part go past without you.
Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.
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 kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have more time than usual — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: the house after everyone is asleep, when the day has been loud — for waking too early or A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, before you go back to something hard — for an overtired night.