Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — for winding down
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
A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. 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.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your ankles can go loose now.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. You can stop listening properly.
Softer. Nothing here needs following closely. Just the weight.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A kitchen late at night, when you are not sure this will work — for an overtired night, A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you need something unremarkable — for the hours after a late shift or An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for waking too early.