A quick one-shot on a new perspective as to why Sandy speaks only using his Dreamsand...
Many people wondered why Sandy never spoke. Some speculated it was because he didn't want to wake anyone up, and that was certainly true. However, only the Man in the Moon knew the other answer. The truth was, it wasn't that Sandy never was able to talk—as a matter of fact, he had been able to, once long ago.
He had flourished in the Golden Age, made so happy by conversation as he flew around in his shooting star, and all was well. Day and night alike were spent wrapped in dreams, in golden sand and warmth. Sandy truly lived in two worlds—that of the dreams he was in, and the other world as an afterthought. While spreading his Dreamsand, he met other Dreamers, so full of hope and wonder that their dreams were rich, fertile places where anything was possible.
Sandy was no fool; He knew that change would come eventually, but hadn't expected it to do so in the way it did.
You see, the Golden Age was disrupted by the Nightmare King; Pitch Black. As he destroyed stars and terrorized the galaxies and planets, Sandy valiantly fought back, but there was an unforeseen circumstance that undermined him. With Pitch came fear, and with fear, disbelief. Soon, those dreamers with the rich, fertile dreams faded into dull, grey masses. Folks didn't stop to talk to Sandy anymore, or worse—they did, but not with the open mind and wonder of the past. They talked with Reality, about impossible things never happening.
To someone who had been so wrapped in dreams forever, such an act was inconceivable to Sandy. He tried in vain to help them, to heal them, but to no avail. Suddenly, and all too quickly, what had once been warm and welcoming became cold and foreign to him. Dreams were no longer about magical things, but about Stock Markets and "reality", and iron buildings that rose in jagged formations to the sky.
Sandy never stopped trying to get someone to hear him, but those who could were so few and far between….he was tired, exhausted of only being told about things like this, and that he didn't exist. So he traded out his verbal voice for one far more effective—that of the heart. He no longer had to have his heart broken with every tried and failed communication—with his Dreamsand and the conviction of the heart, he was able to spread more dreams tan before, offering more hope.
Sometimes, when he looks at his family, he wistfully wishes he could use words to talk to them too, but in the end, he knows he doesn't need anything more than sand-images—they'll always know how much they mean to him.
So when you awaken late at night, and see moonlight slanting off your bedroom walls, and the dust motes seem to hang suspended in midair, waiting to fall, and the temperature is just right…look carefully, and you might see the Sandman. He is there, spreading dreams. If you believe enough, and dream dreams so wild and so wonderful you wake up overjoyed and full of the 'impossible', you will see him—and if you're especially lucky, hear him speak. To dreamers, every image is a shared language…and the Sandman, Sandy's, voice.
Hope you enjoyed!
~PhantomBowtie