Sleep story · winter, still
A field under snow, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for a night when you do not want to think
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 air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. 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.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
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 top of your head relax into the pillow. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
Your mind will leave about a hundred times. Come back about a hundred times. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
The words can start to blur now. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.
You do not have to count them. Slower now. Let the dark be ordinary.
Nothing here needs following closely. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Stay with the weight of your body.
When concentration is gone, work with what is left.
No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A hotel room somewhere, when you are too tired to try hard — for winding down, A hotel room somewhere, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for the hours after a late shift or A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are short on time — for the hours after a late shift.