Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — 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
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
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. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your wrists loosen.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
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.
Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your chest can be still now.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your palms open if they were closed.
Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
You do not have to count them. Let the quiet be boring.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay with the weight of your body.
Slower. Softer. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.
Get a blanket first. Being cold defeats the point.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for winding down, A library at closing time, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for an overtired night or A library at closing time (a sleep story), when you are not in the mood — for a racing mind.