Sleep story · winter, still
Sleep story: a field under snow, when you have just finished work — for waking too early
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
The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.
The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your cheeks let go.
Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Your chest can be still now.
Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. Notice the exact moment your attention left. You probably won't catch it. That's normal.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The words can start to blur now. Slower now.
Let your breathing do the rest. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Slower. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Stay with the weight of your body.
The gap right after work is the easiest one to use.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A field under snow (a sleep story), if you have done this a hundred times — for a racing mind, A fire dying down — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are cold and want to be warm — for winding down or A kitchen late at night, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for winding down.