Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you are short on time — for the hours after a late shift
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 sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Let your hands be completely still. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the mattress take all of it.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your wrists loosen.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Leave it there.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let your breathing do the rest. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
You do not have to count them. Stay with the weight of your body. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Pick this one when you are short on time.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train (a sleep story), on a low-energy afternoon — for jet lag, A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, when you feel restless rather than tired — for an overtired night or A hotel room somewhere — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for a night when you do not want to think.