Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — for the hours after a late shift
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Your chest can be still now. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your ribs stop working so hard.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
You do not have to count them. Leave it there.
Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Just the weight.
Get a blanket first. Being cold defeats the point.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.