Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — for a restless 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
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your cheeks let go.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your chest can be still now.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Slower now. Let the next part go past without you.
Let the room get slightly further away. Stay with the weight of your body. Let them.
Just the dark. Almost nothing to do now. Sleep.
Being on your own is not required, but it does make this simpler.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for jet lag, The night train or A hotel room somewhere, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for jet lag.