Sleep story · warm, winter
Sleep story: a fire dying down, when you need something unremarkable — for winding down
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 smell of woodsmoke in the room that will still be there tomorrow. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it. The dog is asleep on the rug, on the side nearest the heat.
There is a blanket over your legs that you did not consciously arrange. 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.
Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.
Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Your ankles can go loose now.
The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
Let your ribs stop working so hard. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.
Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.
The logs beside the fireplace are down to the last two. The ash in the grate is deep and soft and grey at the edges.
Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.
The fire has stopped being flames and is now mostly red shapes that shift and settle. Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again.
Feel your cheeks let go. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.
The heat reaches about a metre from the fire and stops. The window is black, and the glass is cold if you touch it.
Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your hands be completely still.
Somewhere in the house, a door closes and everything goes quiet again. Every few minutes a piece of wood falls in on itself with a small collapse of sparks.
If your mind is quiet, don't grab at it. Quiet comes and goes too. If you're counting the minutes, that's fine. Count them and come back.
Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let your calves spread out and flatten.
You can stop listening properly. Let the room get slightly further away.
Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Nothing here needs following closely. Slower now.
Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay. Softer.
Nothing dramatic happens here, and that is deliberate.
Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.