Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — 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 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. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the mattress take all of it.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Your chest can be still now. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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 forehead go cool and smooth. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Softer.
Let the dark be ordinary. Sleep. Let it all get further away.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the room get slightly further away. Let your breathing do the rest.
Being on your own is not required, but it does make this simpler.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, after a difficult conversation — for a restless night, A bus at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for jet lag or A garden in the rain, when you have more time than usual — for the hours after a late shift.