Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are too tired to try hard — for a night when you do not want to think
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 light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Feel your wrists loosen. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.
Stay. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
You can stop listening properly. Let the next part go past without you. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Too tired to try hard is exactly the right amount of tired for this.
Let everything get quiet, including this.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.