Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you have been putting it off — for an overtired 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
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. 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.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your hands be completely still.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let the mattress take all of it.
Just the breath. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Let the quiet be boring. Leave it there. Stay.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. They will find their own way out. Let the next part go past without you.
You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.