Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for an overtired night
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange.
Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Let the mattress take all of it. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else. If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let them. You can stop listening properly.
Stay with the weight of your body. They will find their own way out. Nothing needs deciding tonight.
Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.
Let this be the last thing you listen to.