Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have woken up too early — for the hours after a late shift
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 mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Feel your cheeks let go. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
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.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Just the breath. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Stay with the weight of your body. You do not have to count them. Let the next part go past without you.
Softer. Leave it there. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Waking too early is a specific kind of frustrating. This helps with the frustration.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.