Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when nothing else has worked today — for jet lag
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
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 water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your chest can be still now.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Just the weight. Let the dark be ordinary.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.