Sleep story · rain, green
Sleep story: a garden in the rain, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for an overtired night
Steady rain on leaves, and a chair under an awning that stays dry.
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 nothing to do about any of it, which is the good part. Under the awning it is dry, and the sound is a steady, unhurried patter. There is a wooden bench that nobody has sat on for an hour.
The watering can by the tap is full and nobody needs it. The leaves in the border are dark and glossy and moving slightly. Somewhere in the hedge, a bird is sitting it out.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Water runs off the gutter in a thin, continuous line. The rain on the roof of the awning is a lower sound than the rain on the leaves.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The rain has settled into the kind that will last all afternoon without getting heavier. The path has gone darker where it is wet, and there are two small puddles near the step.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your palms open if they were closed.
A snail is making its way along the bottom of the wall, going nowhere in particular. The earth smells the way it does after a long dry spell.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.
Your chest can be still now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let it all get further away. Let the dark be ordinary. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Stay with the weight of your body. Just the weight. You do not have to count them.
Choosing this over scrolling counts as a good decision, even a small one.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for rain, green.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when your attention is scattered — for waking too early, A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you want something simple — for winding down or A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you have tried everything else — for an overtired night.