Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you feel restless rather than tired — for waking too early

The story, in full

The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.

The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Let your hands be completely still.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.

Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. If you're judging your performance, that's the same habit as judging everything else.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Almost nothing to do now. Stay with the weight of your body.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the dark be ordinary. Sleep.

Restless is different from tired, and it needs a different approach.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

12 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, winter.