Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are tired of apps — for waking too early
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
Notice if you've been frowning at your own thoughts. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Just the weight. Sleep.
Let the room get slightly further away. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let your breathing do the rest.
No account, no streak, no notification asking how you feel.
Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.