Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, after a difficult conversation — 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
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
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 thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel your cheeks let go.
There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your hands be completely still.
You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away.
Softer. Slower. They will find their own way out.
Let the dark be ordinary. Let your breathing do the rest. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room — a slow story for the end of the day, when nothing else has worked today — for jet lag, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when the day has been loud — for a restless night or The house after everyone is asleep (a sleep story), when you are on your own — for an overtired night.