Sleep story · warm, winter
A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have already had a long week — for jet lag
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 ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. 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.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
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.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your cheeks let go.
Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the mattress take all of it.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.
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.
Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
Notice anything you're holding onto from earlier today. If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.
Sleep. Slower.
You do not have to count them. Let the dark be ordinary. The words can start to blur now.
Stay with the weight of your body. They will find their own way out. Almost nothing to do now.
Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
20 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.