Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are waiting for something — for the hours after a late shift
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 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. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel your cheeks let go.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.
Your chest can be still now. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the next part go past without you.
Stay with the weight of your body. Just the breath. Stay.
Softer. Slower now. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A library at closing time, after eating too much — for jet lag, A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for the hours after a late shift or A bus at night, if you are fitting this around other people — for jet lag.