Sleep story · winter, still
Sleep story: a field under snow, when you want to finish something — for a night when you do not want to think
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. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.
The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.
Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.
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.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Your chest can be still now.
Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.
The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you're sleepy, sit up a little. Or let the sleepiness be there.
Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.
Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Let the dark be ordinary.
Nothing here needs following closely. Just the weight. Let it all get further away.
Wanting to finish something is a better motivation than wanting to relax.
I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.
14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.
If this story does not settle you, try A lake before dawn, when you are on your own — for a restless night, A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for the hours after a late shift or A caravan by the sea — a slow story for the end of the day, if you are doing this instead of scrolling — for a restless night.