Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — 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
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Feel your wrists loosen. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
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.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
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.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Your ankles can go loose now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Slower.
You can stop listening properly. Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the dark be ordinary. The words can start to blur now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train, if you are new to this — for jet lag, A bus at night, if you are fitting this around other people — for winding down or A kitchen late at night, when you feel restless rather than tired — for waking too early.