Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have been meaning to start — for the hours after a late shift
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
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. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The window is thick and slightly green at the edges. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.
If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Stay. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Leave it there. Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
You have been meaning to start. This is the least intimidating way in.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for a racing mind, Sleep story: a bus at night, on a day that started badly — for winding down or A garden in the rain, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a racing mind.