Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, after a difficult conversation — for waking too early
A small harbour, a rope that creaks, and a boat that moves about a metre in the night.
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
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.
The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Your ankles can go loose now.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Nothing here needs following closely. They will find their own way out.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the next part go past without you. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Just the dark.
Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.