Sandman

I've been listening to Rammstein a lot recently. Their song "Mein Herz brennt" got me thinking about the sandman and inspired me to this little tale. Enjoy.

Do you believe in the Sandman? No? Then why do you think there are little grains of dirt in the corner of your eyes every morning when you wake up? When you were young, who do you think made you sleepy when it was time for bed? Your dad's bedtime story? No. You wanted to hear another one. Your mum coming to kiss you goodnight? No. You said you still wanted some chocolate. It's the Sandman that pours sand over your eyes. Why do you think your eyelids became so heavy all of a sudden. He wants you to sleep. He needs you to sleep. To dream.
Each grain of sand is like a seed and like with all seeds some take root and some do not. Some grow a bit and die and some never open. But some, if watered properly, will grow into beautiful flowers or sturdy trees. Your long hours of sleep are like water for the dream seeds. They make them flourish and bloom. The Sandman looks after them patiently like a farmer does look after his crops. He is diligent and watches over them carefully for they only have until morning to grow. When the first sunlight caresses your skin, when the first rooster crows, when the smell of coffee begins to slowly rouse you from slumber they whither and die quickly.
From midnight until the hour before dawn the Sandman waits for the dream seeds to grow to maturity. All night he does his rounds. Ever so often he peeks through your closed eyelids into your sleeping mind to inspect them - like a farmer does his tomatoes or cabbages. You would not feel his weight as he leans onto your chest. He is tall but gaunt and weighs next to nothing. Those saplings he finds unworthy he gently plucks from your mind to leave fertile ground for new ones. It's good ones he waits for. The dreams about lost love, slaying dragons, becoming president - or about ghost, goblins, being eaten alive or hunted by a faceless stranger. Those are the ones he claims for himself. With his long, immaterial hand he reaches deep into your mind and gathers together all the different strands and fills them into one of his many bottles. Then he smoothes out the ripples in your head. You would never know he had been there. And he continues his rounds.
Only just before sunrise he retreats to his abode far, far away from light and warmth with bottles full of fresh dreams. He craves them. He needs them. One by one he uncorks the bottles and presses the content into his cold veins. You should see the broad smile it brings to his pallid features and the youth it revives in his desiccated body. The taut skin around his features becomes supple again, his wide eyes roll back and his head lolls in ecstasy. He quivers and groans as life seeps back into him. This is how he spends the fitful hours of daylight. Until darkness falls and he goes out to sow his next harvest.
And then there are still the unruly children. Those who refuse to sleep and stay up late. Those that want to wander around the house in the middle of the night in search of snacks or read under the blanket. These are the ones that vex the Sandman much. They deny him their dreams. They deny him his only pleasure, his ambrosia. He still comes to them, of course. But he does not bring sand. Have you ever wondered why the dark of the late night struck fear into your heart as a child? Did you believe in Witching Hour or the Bogey Man? Were you afraid of the dark shape of a man standing in the deepest shadow in the corner of your room? Of the nameless things that lurked under your bed? Or in the closet that was never fully closed? Or in the pitch black of the basement? Would you shiver at the feeling of wisps of darkness reaching out to you like tentacles? Were you convinced there were demons, ghosts or black fairies? They would crawl out from under your bed and out of the cellar. You would pull your blanket up over your face but they would still peek at you from underneath. You would switch on the light or even scream for mummy and daddy. But that would not make them go away, only go into hiding. Until the lights went out once more.
So, little children pay good heed. I am the voice from out of your pillow. I have brought you something tonight. Think carefully before you resist its lure. I shall be here until break of day, sitting on the edge of your bed. Watching you sleep.
Sweet dreams.
They only grow in little children.