Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn
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. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet. Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Your chest can be still now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let them. Let the quiet be boring.
Stay with the weight of your body. Slower. Just the weight.
After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.