Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are waiting for something — for an overtired 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
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. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Your ankles can go loose now. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Just the weight. You do not have to count them.
Let the quiet be boring. Stay with the weight of your body. Leave it there.
Just the dark. Stay. Slower.
Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A bus at night, if you are sceptical about all of this — for a restless night, An attic room (a sleep story), when you are not sure this will work — for a night when you do not want to think or Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you are not in the mood — for winding down.