Sleep story · sea, still
A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are waiting for something — 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 window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
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. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Stay. Let the quiet be boring.
Just the weight. Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Leave it there. You do not have to count them. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
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 Sleep story: a caravan by the sea, when you have more time than usual — for a restless night, A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are waiting for something — for jet lag or Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you are not in the mood — for winding down.