Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you are sceptical about all of this — for an overtired night
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Your chest can be still now. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your hands be completely still.
Notice the moment you realise you've drifted. That moment is the whole skill. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Let the next part go past without you. Stay.
The words can start to blur now. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the room get slightly further away.
Scepticism is welcome. You do not have to believe anything for this to work.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.