Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are short on time — for a night when you do not want to think
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 logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
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. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your hands be completely still.
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 forearms get heavy and warm. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
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.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
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.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Slower. Let the quiet be boring.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Nothing here needs following closely. Sleep.
Just the breath. Leave it there. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Pick this one when you are short on time.
The end. Sleep well.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.