Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day (a sleep story), when you have woken up too early — for an overtired 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
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
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. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
Let the mattress take all of it. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. You do not have to count them.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Slower now. Leave it there.
Just the breath. Let the quiet be boring. Sleep.
Waking too early is a specific kind of frustrating. This helps with the frustration.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.