Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, when you are somewhere noisy — for waking too early
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
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.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel your wrists loosen.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
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.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the mattress take all of it.
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.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.
Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The words can start to blur now. Let the next part go past without you.
Just the weight. Slower now. Slower.
Stay. You do not have to count them. Let the room get slightly further away.
Noise is fine. You are not trying to hear anything subtle.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try An attic room (a sleep story), when you are not sure this will work — for winding down, Sleep story: a kitchen late at night, when your attention is scattered — for a restless night or Sleep story: an attic room, when you need something unremarkable — for a racing mind.