Sleep story · winter, still
Sleep story: a field under snow, if you are new to this — for a racing mind
Everything muffled, everything white, and no tracks but yours.
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
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.
There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.
Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.
There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Your chest can be still now.
The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.
If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.
Let the quiet be boring. Just the dark.
Softer. Leave it there. Let the room get slightly further away.
Nothing here assumes you have done this before.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.