A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are not in the mood — for a racing mind

The story, in full

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.

There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. 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.

Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the mattress take all of it.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.

If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Slower. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Let the room get slightly further away. Sleep. You do not have to count them.

Not being in the mood is a normal starting point.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.