Sleep story · still, water
A lake before dawn, when you only have a few minutes — for a racing mind
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
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. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Feel your wrists loosen. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
You can stop listening properly. Just the dark.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let the next part go past without you. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
A few minutes is the whole requirement.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.