Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for an overtired night
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. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the mattress take all of it.
There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Your chest can be still now.
The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let them. Slower.
Nothing needs deciding tonight. Just the breath. Just the weight.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let the next part go past without you. You can stop listening properly.
It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A bus at night (a sleep story), when you need to stop thinking about work — for the hours after a late shift, A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you only have a few minutes — for a restless night or A bus at night (a sleep story), when you are waiting for something — for waking too early.