Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — for waking too early
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 lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. 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 wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your ankles can go loose now.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the dark be ordinary.
Leave it there. Slower. Let the next part go past without you.
Let the room get slightly further away. Softer. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Being on your own is not required, but it does make this simpler.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.