Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you have been on screens all day — for a racing mind

The story, in full

The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. 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. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.

Let your hands be completely still. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Notice the tone of your own inner voice. Is it kind? If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the mattress take all of it.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the dark be ordinary.

You do not have to count them. Leave it there. The words can start to blur now.

After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.