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 waking too early
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 light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
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. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Your chest can be still now. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
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.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your breathing do the rest. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
Just the weight. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Stay with the weight of your body.
The words can start to blur now. Let the room get slightly further away. Leave it there.
Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.