Mr. Sandman

There comes a time within the hourglass, when the sands lose their porcelain appeal and appear not to exist at all. It is on the darkest hour that the beach’s flooring slips between the fingers of the sea and disappears from its wake altogether. In this stretch of time, one looses his grip on time and can measure only space: that which expands within the landscape of vision and elevates the senses.

When the eye meets space, space is dressed in black. The eye immediately experiences the initial nerves that surface from fear—an honest reaction to the unknown. Terrified, the eye tries to shut himself and erase the confronted image. But it is already closed. Tense, the eye signals the body to lock itself and let in no more. But always warned a moment too late, the body has already become submerged into a state of lightness.

Space sleeps upon the folded eyelids and its weight pushes impressions through the bedding of the skin. The body feels no pressure, as its back rests upon the lining of his coffin. For sleep is a state of death—the determinate dying of the day.

Staring up, the eye is pierced by a sight that shines through, contrasting the dark paint that coats the sky at night. The image seems to drop from the ceiling, as if it had been hanging above the mind and behind the clouds of day. Breaking through the wall of the night, the vivid image permeates the landscape I exist in. But before I can call out in response, it sinks beneath the evening and dissolves inside my interior sea of sense, swimming through the blood of my veins and releasing itself into the sewer of my internalized city of dreams that operates beneath my active conscious.

Nothing materializes within the space of this world. Not anything definite describes the sights seen across those sands of time. No face shows itself for long; just like Love, its duration is short and I must spend the next hours forgetting how it came and left.

Aware of my rising wakefulness, the hot temperament of the sun pressing its cheek against my blinds, the curtains rise from my eyes. SHOW OVER but darkness in mind, still. I spring forward in the coffin of my bed, the season of my former self dead and imprinted upon the sheets. Like a wax doll, the impressions have remolded the soft shell of my skin.

In the time of day, I see the hourglass lightly rain sand and know I have been born anew. Different from dream, a more developed self has woken within me and has transitioned through my internal I, evaluating the external reality with more wake and clarity. My subconscious conceals the pressure that weighed upon my eyes but today, my speech is driven by rebellion. Pressure bubbles behind my mouth and poetry explodes: “If dreams don’t make matter, I will keep woken by writing and live myself deeper inside my waking lives.”