The Sandman Versus The Insomniac

Making dreams is honest work. There’s nothing much to it, really, and I’m not trying to be humble by saying that. In the past few years fatigue has become an epidemic. Forced to work, forced to sacrifice sleep for work and family, humans doze off in the most inopportune places, from steering wheels to office computers to you-name-it. It’s cute, watching them submit to sleep so easily. Almost pitiful. I barely have to lift a finger. 

But who am I to judge them for craving sleep so bad? Sleep is a drug, an aphrodisiac, a God, a scarcity. I know sleep. I am sleep. My hair is the feather fluff inside your pillows. My eyes are perpetually half-closed, half-resting, gritty and globby no matter how hard I clean them. With my strange, filmy hands I puppeteer sleepwalkers, snorers, and lucid dreamers. I grant the humans I like with wild fantasies and the ones I don’t with nightmares. I am the Sandman, and damn good at my job. 

Feeling restless? Have too much energy? Step inside my caravan and I’ll see what I can do for you. That’s it, nice and easy now. Mind the missing step. Don’t be afraid. I’m not the kind of dreamer that’ll lead you astray. 

Welcome, welcome to my workshop! You’ll notice that the air in here is different than it is outdoors. Delicious, isn’t it? It isn’t polluted with failed hopes and caffeine, not like the outside world is. I’m allergic to those scents. I’ve lit the finest sage, laced with melatonin and a hint of warm milk. If you inhale deeply, you might get a whiff of the stars and the moon, too. And how do those smell? Like caramel and baby shampoo fused together. 

Doesn’t that just inspire sleep within you? Well, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?

So sorry—I didn’t mean to get testy there. I can see you’re still awake. My clients usually drift off within the first minute of being inside. Why don’t you take off your jacket and find a seat? Anywhere is fine. I prefer to sit on the bed myself. Isn’t it a lovely bed? It was a gift from Father Time. You can tell it was homemade by the delicacy of the stitch-work, the lumplessness of the mattress. He said it took an eternity to make, but an eternity is nothing to him. I’ve seen him work on projects for much longer. 

Enough with my ramblings. Let’s talk business.

It’s insomnia you have, correct? Not to worry—there hasn’t been an ailment that the ole Sandman can’t cure. Once I coaxed a barn owl into hunting during the day and resting at night. On a separate occasion I lullabied Morpheus to sleep. True story. 

Are you comfortable? Good. Let’s see what we’ve got in the inventory. My, my, I really need to organize in there—too much clutter. Ah, yes, here we are: the sheep mobile. My dear friend, would you mind if I hung this mobile above your head? That’s a good sport. Now listen to my words, and heed them carefully. What I’m asking you to do is keep your focus on the sheep. They’ll spin and bray and look so pretty in their popcorny wool, and as they move you’ll count them, one-by-one. Think you can do that? There’s a champ, such a wonderful mortal! Alright: begin.

One, two, three, four. Keep counting. Keep going.

Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven. Your eyelids are getting very, very heavy.

Ninety-eight, ninety-nine. Nothing yet?

Two-hundred-and-ten, two-hundred-and-eleven, two-hundred-and-twelve. No? Not even a teensy, weensy bit tired?

Let’s try something new. That was an old technique, anyhow. Not very effective. Tell me: have you ever heard of hypnosis? Of course you have—how presumptuous I am, to think humans know nothing! Well, then, why don’t you recline your chair into a comfortable position. Now close those dreamless, vacant, myopic eyes of yours and settle into your body. Make mantis hands: curl your wrists inwards and take in a breath. An interesting fact: mantises are actually very vivid dreamers. Prayer is a form of dreaming. But I digress—oh, I always lose track of my thoughts!—curl your wrists and join your fingertips together. Let your fingernails kiss, like the moonlight pecks your pillow, blessing your night with sweet, sweet slumber. No using tongue! Heh, heh. Just a little Sandman humor. 

I hope you’re not sensitive to high frequencies. Humming is a Sandman’s native language, and we’re able to best articulate ourselves when we hum at a very shrill pitch. Let the music of my voice whisk you to unconsciousness. Imagine a realm of unseeing and unknowing—you’ll find it in the empty space behind your eyelids. In the cracks and crevices of your brain. Between the breaks in your snores. Think of this land, and visualize yourself within it, one lonely player in the vast world of dreams. 

Hhhhmmmm. Hhhhmmmm. 

Rockabye baby, on the tree top.

Twinkle, twinkle little star.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word.

Hhhmmmmm. Hhhhmmmmm.

Go to sleep.

Go. To. Sleep.

I said, GO. TO. SLEEP.

Oh my. I do apologize for raising my voice. Frankly, I’ve never seen a patient who’s so insistent on resisting. But have no fear, for I am the greatest Sandman the world has ever known, the purveyor of fatigue and defender of Slumber Town! One restless mortal won’t get in the way of my magic. So what if you haven’t slept in two days? 

Five? You haven’t slept in five days? Huh. That’s new.

Needn’t fret—I have something stronger than sheep. Stronger than hypnosis, too. Here’s a secret I don’t share with everyone: I always carry a little sand in my sleeve. Really, I do! See here, I’m holding a pinch in between my fingers—no more than five grains. That’s enough to tranquilize an elephant. Not that I think you’re as big as an elephant, of course. You just need a heavy dose. An elephant-sized dose. Once I sprinkle the sand over your head, your reality will melt away, slowly and beautifully, as sleep creeps in. 

This will work. This has to work. If this doesn’t work I just don’t know what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll scream or cry or do both at the same time but who can say, really, because it’s never not worked before. So it will work. It must work. If it doesn’t work then congratulations, you win, you’re more powerful than sleep, you’re more powerful than me, and I’ll have been of no service to you, not at all.

Alright. Now close your eyes again. Think of nothing but sand. Think of the innards of an hourglass. The bottom of a beachcomber’s sandal. Imagine it seeping through your skin, sliding through your veins. The sand is good. The sand is strong. The sand will knock you out like that.

…

Like that.

…

Like. That. 

…

LIKE. THAT. 

…

That’s it. I’ve had enough. I don’t care that I raised my voice. I don’t care if I woke up my neighbors, either. Who cares whether or not they sleep? Not me. Not you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, for more people to be like you? Immune to my infallible powers. Spitting at the feet of the King of Catnaps. Enjoy a life with no dreams, you wide-awake wretch. 

Jesus. I need a cigarette. 

You think you’re so smug? You think you know better than I do? Then take it, take all of it! Take the sand and the bed and every other piece of sleep-shit I have here. If I’m not strong enough to subdue one pathetic mortal, how can I call myself a Sandman? It’s your turn now, since you think you’re so high-and-mighty. Take the sage, take the sheep. The caravan is yours to keep. It’s time for me to retire—retire to where, I don’t care. And I lied about the Morpheus story, by the way. I’ve never even met the guy. 

So goodbye, so long, au revoir, and adios. All dreams must end and mine ends now.