Sleep story · water, slow
Sleep story: a boat at anchor, when you have woken up too early — for winding down
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
The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark.
The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.
Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Let them. Let the quiet be boring.
Just the dark. They will find their own way out. You can stop listening properly.
Waking too early is a specific kind of frustrating. This helps with the frustration.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for water, slow.