Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you need something unremarkable — for a night when you do not want to think
The last hour of a fire, when it stops being a fire and becomes warmth.
Reading it yourself. Back to the audio version.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The fire will be out in half an hour and nobody needs to watch it happen.
Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat. The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your palms open if they were closed.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.
There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let the mattress take all of it.
The room has gone darker than you noticed, and the light is all low and orange. The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two.
Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.
The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges. There is a smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow.
Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking. Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.
You can stop listening properly. They will find their own way out.
Stay with the weight of your body. Let the room get slightly further away. Sleep.
Nothing here needs following closely. Just the dark. Just the breath.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
The room is dark, the day is finished, and nothing is required of you.