Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), on a low-energy afternoon — for jet lag
One light turning, a kettle, and weather you are on the right side of.
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
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Sleep. You can stop listening properly.
They will find their own way out. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Slower now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the next part go past without you.
Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are waiting for something — for a racing mind, The night train, after a difficult conversation — for winding down or A fire dying down, when nothing else has worked today — for an overtired night.