Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), before something difficult — for winding down
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
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 light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Feel your wrists loosen. Your ankles can go loose now.
If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the mattress take all of it.
You do not have to count them. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
Just the dark. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
It works best in the hour before something difficult.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.