Mr. Sandman

- Damn, it's been a long night. Mr. Sandman laid back within his own shadow and sighed. Every dreamer needs a reminder that he has visited; he did feel his delicate touch was underestimated by some of the deeper dreamers. Each night he placed a bit of small, yellowish grain in the inner corners of well closed eyes. He always stood back and had a good look before moving on to the next sleeper. Over the years he had split up the planet with some, let's just say, sand workers, to be sure everyone was covered. The art of placing sand near a human's eye was not easily learned yet although immortal he actually grew tired of doing the work solo. There was one thing weighing quite heavily upon this legend. Mr. Sandman never had the time for romance, dancing, or any thrill seeking and he began to find his work dull. The world had depended on him for far too long and not with one thank you, just moaning complaints he overheard. Mothers told children to wash the sand out of their eyes before school and in old folks homes nursing aides carefully wiped their patients eyes with moist clothes to freshen them up. What was the point? Mr. Sandman was long, lean and his skin was burnt sienna, like the infamous Crayola crayon. He had seen all the world's deserts from the Sahara to the Patagonian, he had even attended "Burning Man" twice. Funny thing is, no one truly believed him when they asked who he was and what he did and all. Immortality sounds quite intriguing to the fragile, human mind but Mr. Sandman swears it's a curse. No one put sand in his eyes, checked on him to see if he was feeling alright and other than with his understudies, he didn't have anyone to communicate with. One dusky evening, just around Christmas he had what one might call an epiphany. A muse fell into his hands and he felt driven, almost manically so, to become more decorative when leaving his trademark; perhaps then he would at least hear some praise or be the recipient of a much longed for cognisant recognition that would lend some status to his trade. Thus the tale of Mr. Sandman's artistic endeavours begins.

He began by exploring ink artist's techniques in San Diego; what a lesson in pain. He watched the grimaced smiles of those being permanently embossed with the likes of twisting snakes from wrist to shoulder, Chinese symbols on their knuckles and hearts or small roses minted on the nape of their neck and the tender points on the outside of their ankles. He highly doubted permanency was a good idea in the eye area; he was sure it would not lead him to fame or a passionate following. The atmosphere with it's deep purple walls, shiny black trim and shaded windows was altogether a turn off for him. He had slipped in easily without much ado, his exit was unnoticed. He furthered his research by entering a huge library in Manhattan, New York. One of his perks of being immortal was he never had a train to catch or needed to stand in cue, he just appeared where he wanted to be. He'd never given it much thought whilst lounging in his desert hideaways, yet the crowds in the city were monstrous and most undesirable. Once inside this beautiful relic of knowledge he found his way to the art and culture section; whimsically he flipped through volumes of books on design.

Just before returning to one of his favourite arid spots in Black Rock, Nevada he was struck by a man singing joyfully to the passers-by. Pedestrians smiled, throwing coins into his guitar case. This mesmerised Mr. Sandman and for the first time he felt envy. Would anyone ever think to leave a treasure for him after sharing his best work with dutiful commitment for centuries? He had left reminders of a good night's sleep into the eyes of dreamers for as long as time could be measured, never once waking anyone? It was his sole purpose for existing. Is this it? He pondered to the point of having an internal crisis; he knew, without doubt he must change something to show off his cleverness.

He decided to try out his hobby, that being singing lullabies he'd learned from all around the world in many languages. That very night he began to sing as he visited some of the younger dreamers who might appreciate his new approach to sleepy eyed awakenings.

Midnight struck as he drifted into a motel room of a young couple who'd been out on the town, falling asleep in one another's arms; surely they would recognise his finesse. Swirling sand into a new miniscule labyrinth was time consuming; he stood back and admired his work.

"I will be noted for this most certainly", he boasted to one of his helpers whose loyalty was a given as he stood by with fresh sand in small pouches of muslin.

He flurried through the night from dreamers in tents, to those on the ground in small straw huts, those lying on benches in bus stations and bunkbeds in orphanages. From Singapore to the isles of Scotland he met his own dream of being noticed, singing "Mister Sandman, bring me a dream, make him the cutest that I've ever seen , give him two lips like roses in clover , then tell him that his lonesome nights are over...". He anxiously awaited for the world to wake and for his own glory to begin.

One by one dreamer's awoke and washed away his dream, not one noticed his tedious efforts or remembered his singing as he worked. No coins were tossed or prizes given. He met his ego in an oasis and spoke inwardly. "Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind."