Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you have woken up too early — for a restless night
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 lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. 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 light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your hands be completely still.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your cheeks let go.
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Let the next part go past without you. Let the dark be ordinary.
Sleep. You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Just the dark. Stay with the weight of your body.
Waking too early is a specific kind of frustrating. This helps with the frustration.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when you are somewhere noisy — for winding down, An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are not in the mood — for the hours after a late shift or A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you are doing this for the first time — for jet lag.