Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you have been putting it off — 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
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
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 your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Stay. Slower now.
Leave it there. Nothing here needs following closely. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
They will find their own way out. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Almost nothing to do now.
You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, on a day that started badly — for the hours after a late shift, The house after everyone is asleep — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are new to this — for the hours after a late shift or Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have been meaning to start — for a restless night.