Sleep story · sea, still
Sleep story: a lighthouse at the end of a long day, when you want to be left alone — for winding down
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 room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass.
The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
There is a logbook open on the table with the last entry in someone else's handwriting. There is a chair pulled up to the window that fits exactly one person.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your wrists loosen.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
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.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Just the weight. You do not have to count them.
Let them. Slower now. Sleep.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let your breathing do the rest. Let the next part go past without you.
Nothing here asks anything of you socially.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for sea, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A garden in the rain — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are not sure this will work — for waking too early, A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when nothing else has worked today — for an overtired night or A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for a restless night.