Sleep story: a field under snow, if you are new to this — for an overtired night

The story, in full

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.

Your chest can be still now. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.

If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather. If a song is stuck in your head, let it play in the background.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Almost nothing to do now. Just the dark.

Let it all get further away. Stay. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Nothing here assumes you have done this before.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.