Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, after a difficult conversation — 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
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. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Feel your wrists loosen. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
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.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your cheeks let go.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Softer. Just the dark.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let them. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Nothing here needs following closely. You can stop listening properly. Just the breath.
Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, after a long day — for the hours after a late shift, Sleep story: the night train, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for waking too early or A field under snow (a sleep story), before something difficult — for a night when you do not want to think.