Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you are not sure this will work — for a night when you do not want to think
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 snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. 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.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your wrists loosen.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes. Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Leave it there. Nothing here needs following closely.
The words can start to blur now. Slower now. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let the dark be ordinary. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for the hours after a late shift, A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for waking too early or A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for waking too early.