Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story) for jet lag
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.
Feel your wrists loosen. Feel your cheeks let go.
Sleep. Just the breath.
Let your breathing do the rest. Nothing needs deciding tonight. You can stop listening properly.
Choosing this over scrolling counts as a good decision, even a small one.
There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.