Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for a racing mind
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 farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Let your hands be completely still. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.
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 the mattress take all of it. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.
If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks. If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background.
Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.
Just the dark. You do not have to count them.
The words can start to blur now. Stay. Leave it there.
It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.
That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try The night train (a sleep story), after a difficult conversation — for a racing mind, Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you feel restless rather than tired — for jet lag or A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — for winding down.