I Dare Not Rest My Tired Eyes

I don’t know what further time I still have ahead of this moment before he makes his return to drag me back to the dark place with him. I can already feel his tug on the line of consciousness that keeps me tethered to this waking world. His torrid touch coils around my wrist like a serpent silently strangling fresh prey. He is ready to bring me away with him, to a place beyond the walls of time and sleep, where I fear I will never be allowed to wake again. I await now his return in solemn silence, writing this for any other who may know the weight cast down by the oppression of the fear that he causes. If these passages speak to you, then know that you are not alone in this, that you are not the first to look upon his face, and you will not be the last.

They tell stories of him in the early years of every youth, painting him as a pleasant proprietor of blissful dreaming. If only the parents of all the children who have used him as an icon, knew the reality of the situation. For those reading these words, who have never had to face the fears that come in the night, I hope this serves as an education into your misgivings. By using his name, and carrying on the visage of his deeds, you have only bound him further to our plane, to your children. He who dwells in the dark, casting sand into the eyes of those he hungers for, damning them to a land of endless nightmares, so that he may feast upon the fears that come as a result.

Even now, as a man of many years, who has learned so much from my time adrift along the waters of the world, I see him watching from the dark before I rest my tired eyes. He waits for exhaustion to take its toll, the point where my eyes can no longer bare the burden of a hard day and buckle beneath the weight of time. This is when he comes to me. The moment when all hope of fending off his advances has gone, sprinkling coarse grains, taking in the scent of my turmoil, and relishing in it’s intoxication. I fear what I can not see him doing whilst I sleep. He floods my mind with unending nightmares. Some so horrid and inescapable that when he has had his fill, and I am finally released back into the waking world, it is often in the throes of violence.

I fear that there will be no growing out of this damnation, as my father once tried to assure me when I was still young enough to believe that he could, above all, provide every answer that one could yearn to know. Lies placed on the ears of naivety, they were and nothing more. Parents of this or any age will do or in this case say anything to get their children to sleep. Possible to be considered one of their few selfish acts, to grant themselves a few brief and fleeting moments of tranquility before retiring their minds to the evening as well. I find myself now wishing that he had told me the truth back then. If I had known how many years I would find myself fearing the sandy man in the shadows, I probably would have ended my misery with a well-placed nugget of lead a long time ago. The very way I have thought about doing every night since I finally tore down my reservations and purchase the nine-millimeter Lugar, that these days lives comfortable beneath the empty pillow beside my own. I wonder if tonight is the night I will use it. If not on myself, then on him. Countless nights I have waited, jacked up on coffee and caffeine pills, with my head against the pillow and my hand caressing the grip of the gun. However, he never came, not until the walls of sleep inevitably came crashing over me. He knew what I had planned for him if he showed himself, which makes me believe that he can be harmed.

It is now eleven thirty. The sun has long vanished beneath the jagged line of the horizon, and there is not star visible in the blackened sky. I have taken the last of my pills and polished off what felt like a reservoir of warm brew. I stand here by the window beside my bed, staring out into the abyss overhead, allowing my mind to wander into the endless expanse of darkness. A man can become lost in and emptiness such as this, never knowing what awaits beyond the spot in which he stands, or what future he may or may not wake up to see. I have the distinct displeasure of knowing what is awaiting me when I finally shut my eyes, and something tells me that no matter how much I prepare to face it, my fate will always remain as a fixed point. The question that haunts me further than any other remains that if the Sandman is indeed more then a manifestation of my subconscious fears, then are there others? Are there things much older then us, lurking just beyond the blackened void. Things like him, that once perhaps laid claim to this wretched place, who for centuries has watched us so perversely tarnish what so rightful belongs to them? Are they watching, waiting, possibly preparing for the stars to dwindle so that they can finally return home?