Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you only have a few minutes — 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
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. 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. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your wrists loosen.
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.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.
Your chest can be still now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Let the next part go past without you. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let them. Almost nothing to do now.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.