Sleep story · winter, still

A field under snow, when you have tried everything else — for winding down

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.

Read it myself

Screen on or off — we suggest dimming it, or simply closing your eyes after the first paragraph.

The story, in full

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. 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 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. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Let your hands be completely still. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

Your chest can be still now. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. You can stop listening properly.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let the next part go past without you. Let your breathing do the rest.

This assumes you have already tried the obvious things.

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.