Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you are waiting for something — for a night when you do not want to think
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
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. 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.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your cheeks let go.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this. Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind?
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.
Let the dark be ordinary. Sleep.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. They will find their own way out. Let the quiet be boring.
The words can start to blur now. Let them. Let the room get slightly further away.
Waiting is dead time you can spend on this instead.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.