Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have more time than usual — for a racing mind
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
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.
Let your hands be completely still. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Your ankles can go loose now.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the mattress take all of it.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Your chest can be still now. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. You do not have to count them.
Let your breathing do the rest. Just the weight. Leave it there.
Just the breath. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let it all get further away.
This is the longer version, for a day with some slack in it.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.