Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are on your own — for a racing mind
One light turning, a kettle, and weather you are on the right side of.
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 lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your chest can be still now.
A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your ankles can go loose now.
If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Just the weight. Softer.
Let the room get slightly further away. Leave it there. Slower.
The words can start to blur now. Let the dark be ordinary. You do not have to count them.
Being on your own is not required, but it does make this simpler.
The end. Sleep well.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a hotel room somewhere, if you are new to this — for winding down, A lake before dawn (a sleep story), when you have been on screens all day — for a night when you do not want to think or A kitchen late at night, when you are not sure this will work — for waking too early.