Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a racing mind
One light turning, a kettle, and weather you are on the right side of.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Your chest can be still now. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.
If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Just the dark. Slower now. You can stop listening properly.
Almost nothing to do now. You do not have to count them. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.