Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow (a sleep story), when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for a racing mind
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 air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. 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.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Your chest can be still now. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
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.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Almost nothing to do now. Just the breath.
Let the room get slightly further away. Leave it there. Slower now.
Let the next part go past without you. Just the weight. Nothing here needs following closely.
When concentration is gone, work with what is left.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lighthouse at the end of a long day, when nothing else has worked today — for an overtired night, A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a restless night or An attic room, when you only have a few minutes — for the hours after a late shift.