Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when nothing else has worked today — for the hours after a late shift
Flat water, no wind, and light that has not arrived yet.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Slower. Just the dark.
Sleep. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Nothing here needs following closely.
Nothing else has worked today. That is not a reason to skip this.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.