Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you have already had a long week — for a racing mind
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 air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the mattress take all of it.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
You do not have to count them. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. The words can start to blur now. Stay.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.