Sleep story: a field under snow, when you have just finished work — for an overtired night

The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

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. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Feel your wrists loosen. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.

Your chest can be still now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

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

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back. If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let the next part go past without you. Nothing here needs following closely.

Stay. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let them.

You do not have to count them. Softer. Let the room get slightly further away.

The gap right after work is the easiest one to use.

Let everything get quiet, including this.