Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you are fitting this around other people — for waking too early
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 fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Your chest can be still now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. The words can start to blur now.
Almost nothing to do now. Stay. Just the dark.
It is designed to fit around other people’s schedules.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.