Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you have been putting it off — 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
There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Your chest can be still now.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your wrists loosen.
If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the dark be ordinary.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let it all get further away. Sleep.
The words can start to blur now. Let the room get slightly further away. Let the next part go past without you.
You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a field under snow, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a restless night, A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for an overtired night or An attic room (a sleep story), when you have been meaning to start — for the hours after a late shift.