Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you are at home and cannot settle — for an overtired night
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
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
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange.
Notice your hips, wide and settled. Let the mattress take all of it.
Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.
The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Your chest can be still now.
If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.
Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.
You do not have to count them. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.
Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. You can stop listening properly. Softer.
Just the breath. Let it all get further away. Almost nothing to do now.
Being at home and unable to settle is a very specific problem.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.
18 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.
If this story does not settle you, try Sleep story: a garden in the rain, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for a restless night, A lake before dawn, when the weather has kept you inside — for the hours after a late shift or A boat at anchor, if you are doing this in the middle of the day — for a night when you do not want to think.