Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for a restless night
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 farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. 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.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your ankles can go loose now.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your cheeks let go.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Just the breath.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. You can stop listening properly. Let the dark be ordinary.
Let the room get slightly further away. Let them. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.
Choosing this over scrolling counts as a good decision, even a small one.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere (a sleep story), when you have tried everything else — for waking too early, A library at closing time — a slow story for the end of the day, when the weather has kept you inside — for an overtired night or Sleep story: a field under snow, when you want to finish something — for winding down.