Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you are not sure this will work — 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 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. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Your chest can be still now. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Feel your cheeks let go. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your wrists loosen.
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.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let the quiet be boring. Sleep.
You can stop listening properly. Just the dark. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Almost nothing to do now. Just the breath.
Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
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, when you feel restless rather than tired — for the hours after a late shift, An attic room, before you go back to something hard — for a racing mind or A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when the weather has kept you inside — for a night when you do not want to think.