Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for the hours after a late shift
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 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. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Your ankles can go loose now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the mattress take all of it.
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.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your cheeks let go.
Slower. Let the quiet be boring.
Stay with the weight of your body. They will find their own way out. Stay.
Just the breath. Let the room get slightly further away. You can stop listening properly.
Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.