Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are tired of apps — for an overtired night
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 on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. 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.
Feel your cheeks let go. Your ankles can go loose now.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. 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 ribs stop working so hard.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your hands be completely still.
Let the quiet be boring. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.
The words can start to blur now. Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
No account, no streak, no notification asking how you feel.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.