Sleep story · still, water
Sleep story: a lake before dawn, when you want something simple — 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
A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.
The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your hands be completely still.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your wrists loosen.
The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your cheeks let go.
There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your chest can be still now.
Stay. Let the room get slightly further away.
They will find their own way out. Just the weight. Let the next part go past without you.
The words can start to blur now. Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Simple is the point. There is no advanced version to graduate to.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for still, water.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: an attic room, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for the hours after a late shift, A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when you want to be left alone — for waking too early or A lake before dawn — a slow story for the end of the day, before you go back to something hard — for jet lag.