The
S a n d m a n
-baby green eyes-
"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."
William Shakespeare, Macbeth.
:i:
P L U V I A
Rain fell that night, a fine, whispering rain. Many years later, he only had to close his eyes and he could still hear it, like tiny fingers tapping on the windowpane.
A butterfly fluttered in the distance, and no matter how many times he tossed and turned he couldn't get to sleep.
ooOoo
M E M O R I A
He stood silently, unmoving, at the top of the crag. The wind blew his inky black hair into his eyes, covering his view of the deep blue abyss beneath.
Today would be the day of his return.
The day his spirit would be no more. All his sad quilted memories would be taken away from him. The wind, the freesia flowers, the rain, the sunlight, the little child in his arms, the fields and the swings, the wars and the peace, the cricket and the grasshopper, the death and the life.
The child would have to be on its own from now on. He would have to leave the child behind. It was out of question that he could bring her with him. His own child. In a way.
His own surrogate child would be ripped from his arms and he would never see her eyes sparkle again. He would never brush out that messy curl from her eyes and he would never see her splash around the fishes and the jellyfish and the shells. He would have a water-baby no more.
And he knew, his sand could never remedy this...
ooOoo
Q U I E S C O
At twilight his stitch would be long forgotten in the fabric of life.
He could already feel his body eroding, with the sands of time.
Everything was being gently, gently erased.
Piece by piece fell away, revealing yet another part of him he wished to be kept veiled.
At times like this, he cursed his lonely existence.
He could not escape this.
He could not sleep...
ooOoo
P U G N A
He had lived in the temples of the ancient Egyptians, he had hid in the pillars of the Romans, he had fought in their petty wars and he had debated with their scholars. He had run away from their guards and had defended their weak. He had watched over the wealthy and took care of the poor.
He had built their temples and watched them crumble to nothingness all over again.
He had seen them fall under illness and disease. He had seen them rot until their flesh resembled the thinnest of paper, would crumble at the softest of touch, and he had seen them burst with life.
He had seen them over-whelmed by greed and power and riches, and had seen some of them love and care and nurture.
He had seen the sun-dried bricks and had seen the plaster and the paint. He had seen the seed grow into a tree, he had seen a caterpillar morph into a butterfly, and he had seen a jaguar hunt its prey. He had seen an elephant draw out water from its belly to save its child; it had seen a lion eat another's cub.
He had seen gazelle run freely into the Sahara weeds and sun and wind and grass and the lovely circle of life, he had seen all the animals that roamed this planet, land and air and water, he had seen them dominate over others and cower beneath themselves.
He had seen and heard and felt and touched.
His soul was worn out with time, frayed at the edges, but as hard a steel.
He was withering away now, he could feel it. His spirit was slowly vanishing into nothingness.
...and he would keep fighting.
ooOoo
T R I S T I S
He was dying. Eroding with the sands of time that had come to take him from his pain. Had come to release him from this world in which he had been thrust into. And yet, he had never seen this coming.
He had been with the time-teller; he had been with the men who spoke of seeing the unseen. He had learned all and mastered all their techniques but not for the life of him could he understand time. No, not until now.
Not until you have endured being ripped away from your body and being cruelly thrust into another world, in which time for you doesn't matter. Nothing matters. You have all the time in the world and there is no need for rush.
You will never die; never succumb to weakness or to illness or vulnerability. You will never succumb to the disease of this world and for this you are invincible, yet you know you are enslaved, trapped in which a red-breasted bird in cage will look like a grain of sand to you.
He was the prisoner. He could never escape this never-ending reality. Was it reality or was it illusion? Dream after dream, nightmare after nightmare, and myth after myth, vision after vision he had seen and wanted to break down in a cascade of lamentations...
ooOoo
P E R A C T I O
He had had enough. He had seen his fill. His time on earth was abruptly coming to an end. He would be cruelly pulled back into the misty abyss, where no mortal could venture, could not step foot on, could not discover.
He would watch with the others, in this timeless place, where all has frozen in time, not to be ever changed. He will watch the mortals succumb to their weaknesses and be devoured by their fear.
And he will watch as a spirit would take his place, to guard those it was bidden to. His time was over. It was time he had left, and never returned.
It was time to give in, to go back where he was sent from. His purpose was over. He could rest now. He wouldn't be forced to endure any more of this. It was over.
ooOoo
A N I M U S
It was ironic, in a sense. That he couldn't sleep, yet his purpose was to ensure that the mortals would. He would sing his haunting lullaby, just like he did every other time, and the magic would weave its thread into the unsuspecting mortal.
The silver of his voice would fill their ears, blocking everything else out, snuffing out any little sound. His sand was magic, was his purpose to living this doomed life.
And he would fight; fight until he was worn and weathered and beaten, fight with all his spirit.
Because, that was all it came down to in the end. His sprit. He had nothing left, but the soothing calm of his spirit, his only constant. It would always be there for him. He didn't have a life, it couldn't be called that. He had an existence.
With only a spirit and the urge to keep holding on...
:i:
disclaimer - The Sandman belongs to † Someone Else † and not me.
I found this while sifting through my documents, so I posted it. This is just my version of the legendary Sandman.
A bit pointless, but nevertheless, tell me what you think.
Like it? Hate it?
Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.