Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want something simple — for a restless 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
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. 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. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. 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 thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
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.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your chest can be still now.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. The words can start to blur now.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let them. Just the breath.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Softer.
Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.
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.
If this story does not settle you, try A fire dying down, when you are somewhere noisy — for a night when you do not want to think, The night train (a sleep story), when you are cold and want to be warm — for waking too early or A bus at night (a sleep story), before something difficult — for a racing mind.