Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you have tried everything else — for a night when you do not want to think
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 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. The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not.
There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it. Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Your chest can be still now. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
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.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
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.
Let the mattress take all of it. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let your breathing do the rest.
Almost nothing to do now. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the next part go past without you.
Let the dark be ordinary. Nothing here needs following closely. Slower.
This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train — a slow story for the end of the day, when you feel restless rather than tired — for a night when you do not want to think, A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for jet lag or A field under snow, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for a night when you do not want to think.