Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are short on time — 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
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. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
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.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel your cheeks let go.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times.
Feel your wrists loosen. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let the dark be ordinary. Let the room get slightly further away.
Stay. Nothing here needs following closely. Let them.
Softer. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Just the weight.
Pick this one when you are short on time.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain (a sleep story), when you are too tired to try hard — for the hours after a late shift, An attic room, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for waking too early or A garden in the rain, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a racing mind.