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 the hours after a late shift
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 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. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Slower. Nothing here needs following closely.
Softer. The words can start to blur now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Stay. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Leave it there.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
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 garden in the rain (a sleep story), when the house is busy — for waking too early, A library at closing time (a sleep story), before you go back to something hard — for winding down or The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you are too tired to try hard — for the hours after a late shift.