Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, after eating too much — for a racing mind
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
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel your cheeks let go.
The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your hands be completely still.
Just the dark. You do not have to count them.
Let it all get further away. Stay. Slower now.
You can stop listening properly. Let the room get slightly further away. Slower.
Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A kitchen late at night, when you feel restless rather than tired — for a racing mind, A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have more time than usual — for the hours after a late shift or The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are sceptical about all of this — for the hours after a late shift.