Sleep story · sea, still

A lighthouse at the end of a long day, before you go back to something hard — 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.

Read it myself

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. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.

The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let the mattress take all of it.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

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 toes stop holding on to anything. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled.

Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

Just the weight. Let the next part go past without you.

You do not have to count them. Let your breathing do the rest. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Five minutes here is cheaper than an hour of grinding.

The end. Sleep well.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.