Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down (a sleep story), when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for the hours after a late shift
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
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 room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. If you're bored, stay with the boredom for a moment. It's usually thinner than it looks.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
Let the next part go past without you. The words can start to blur now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let it all get further away.
When concentration is gone, work with what is left.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.