A lake before dawn, when you have been meaning to start — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. 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. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your ankles can go loose now.

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 hands be completely still. Feel your cheeks let go.

The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Nothing here needs following closely. Let them.

Let your breathing do the rest. Let the room get slightly further away. You can stop listening properly.

Just the dark. Slower now. Just the breath.

You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.

The end. Sleep well.

18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.