Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — 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
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your wrists loosen.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your hands be completely still.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
You do not have to count them. They will find their own way out.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Just the weight.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away. Softer.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are not sure this will work — for a restless night, Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have been meaning to start — for a restless night or A field under snow, when you are somewhere noisy — for a racing mind.