Mister Sandman

Together forever is not what it seems,

Drifting away on a sea of dreams.

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Unanchored, the human soul will fly where it wishes – how peculiar then, that when granted the opportunity, man would rather drift along the current, as swimming against it tends to present fewer opportunities to drown. To let a greater force take the reigns is a freedom of sorts, as it is a freedom from choice itself.

I am one such man; I was, at the very least. Now, I'm not so sure. Is a man still a man without the body of a man? Does the spirit remain unchanged, despite constant struggle, or does the act in and of itself alter us? Was there ever really any change at all?

Can man change?

I never asked any of these questions. I asked nothing at all.

I simply rode the current, and drifted away.

The first time I drifted, it was... indescribable.

It's incredibly similar to uppers, I should think; it gave me a wonderful sense of euphoria and freedom, more powerful and intense than anything else I've ever experienced. It was also terrible and bizarre, and horrifying and amazing like nothing could compare. Maybe that's why I did it so much, I guess I just liked the feeling; or maybe I have a habit of running away, and it was only a form of wish fulfillment. A part of me feels like that's selfish, and it probably is – indulging in something like that used to feel wrong.

The first few times.

After a while, I stopped feeling altogether.

I don't know how long I drifted, how long I've been doing it. I just know that I'm not comfortable unless I'm drifting, I'm never happy. Never at peace.

I wonder sometimes if I'm dead, and this is all just a lovely fleeting dream to accompany my passage to the darkness; I could drift like that for all eternity, without sense of time or worry or fear, enveloped and comforted by the dark.

Then I trickle out of the drift, and I start to remember, and I can't bear to leave the light of day again.

For a while.

My first drift. I keep going back to that one, wondering. Perhaps maybe if I had done something differently, maybe if I had just pushed it away or something, anything, things might have been different. I could have stayed firmly on the mortal coil, scurrying this way and that with everyone else. I wonder sometimes if I could have been happy.

But instead I drifted, and now I watch the world turn.

I watched whole worlds turn. I watched them rise and fall. I watched worlds burn.

I watched things that never should have been emerge from and vanish into the dark, I pass them all by every time. It was like that when I first drifted, too... though maybe I was just too stunned to be properly afraid.

When I first drifted, it broke me. Literally, physically, mentally, emotionally, metaphorically – it started just at my shoulder. Without warning, it just... happened.

A tiny, miniscule piece of dust blew off of me, so small that I didn't even realize it at first. Not for a while. I thought the first one a saw was dust, or lint perhaps. Nothing but a grain of sand. Eventually, I noticed that people were beginning to stare, but nobody was saying anything. I thought at first that someone was trying to get my attention, as it felt similar to the warm hand of a kindly old man reaching up to tap my shoulder. The pressure grew, though, and rapidly. It was as if I were slowly turning to ash, an infection tearing apart my body from the shoulder and spreading to the rest of me – it pushed and pulled, like I were a tooth long overdue for a pulling and the world was determined to get me out.

By the time the feeling really sank in, I was already gone.

I couldn't even hear the screams anymore.

That was when I first drifted.

I suppose I could compare it to going to sleep standing up. The world went dark at first, no feeling in my hands, my legs, no feeling in anything at all; just a freedom from all the aches and pains, and a warmth from... somewhere. It still baffles me how I can feel anything without a form to feel it in. For a very long time, I just drifted in the dark with that comforting warmth. It was just so... peaceful. I didn't want it to end, I would have been perfectly content to just float along like that for ever and ever.

When the first pinprick of light appeared, I didn't approach it voluntarily. I wanted to stay just as I was, unchanging, unquestioning, unthinking and serene in ephemeral movement. I wasn't pulled through the light at all, though I almost expected it. Instead, the world simply was; it didn't come into being, it was revealed to me the closer that I grew, like a fog were lifting. I could feel myself being pieced back together, still dazed and confused as I was that I collapsed almost instantly, smack dab in the middle of a street.

No street like any I've been on before, but clearly some kind of murky gray sturdy material, like a bubbly, light concrete. The screaming was painfully loud, mingled with familiar car horns of a large city. From the panic that was growing around me and the number of people screaming, it was pretty apparent that someone materializing out of thin air didn't happen too often in this part of the neighborhood.

A lot of the shouting sounded similar to Mandarin, but I had no way of telling; it was either too garbled or muffled to make out clearly, and I wouldn't have understood it regardless. Every person on the sidewalk I'd burst onto kept a wide berth, even though I'd been doing nothing but kneeling and examining my surroundings the entire time.

Considering, I think I was taking it all pretty well.

A tiny old woman was the only one with the courage to get near me, leaning heavily on a gnarled staff that must have predated even herself. I couldn't tell what she said, but the way that she gestured to see the palm of my hand seemed friendly enough. She inspected me closely, gently running crooked fingers over the skin, lingering particularly long on the wrists before finally smiling at me. A smile was something I could recognize. I smiled back.

By this time, however, a great number of people were already getting seemingly angry, several of which had cellphones out to either call someone or record the events – maybe I had just traveled in location. Perhaps all cities in China were much like this, and I was just ignorant of the fact.

Whoever the old woman was, she was very kind to me. When a few of the younger surprisingly large boys of the crowd tried to pull me away, she was swift to start swinging with terrifying force, shouting angrily in whatever language it was. She led me all the way across half the city, talking excitedly the entire way, her hand clutched tightly to my wrist as she pointed out one identical building after another with her cane.

After a few hours of this, she showed me her home.

It was a tiny place, too small to be comfortable. Similar to many of the other places just like it, all crammed together on the little street. It was more of a carving into the side of a building with a campfire grill in the center, a couple of thin blankets and pots scattered about. I took all of this in quietly, listening and nodding as she showed me a few battered but well cared for pictures of what might have been herself and another man, from long, long ago.

I don't really think that the old woman really knew what was going on. Maybe she was just lonely and pulled me away from the mob, but I was still grateful. After night had fallen she brewed a thin noodle soup with a number of strange spices, one of which tasted so strongly of peppers that I almost hacked up a lung. She found this highly amusing, only laughing and offering more soup.

She had so many pictures, and no place to put them. Pictures of children that could have been hers, photographs of places and people that I had no recollection of. She just seemed happy to have someone to share it with, someone to talk to next to the fire.

I drifted again not long after.

We made ourselves more comfortable as the night grew on, she even offered me her own flimsy blanket to ward off the cold. I stretched out an arm to take it, not wanting to seem rude, and that's when I felt the warmth again – like I had drawn a little too close to the flame, and it was spreading throughout me again.

I still see her confused, hurt expression sometimes. Just as I drift away.

I'm not sure if it was because I was pulled along by some cosmic force or if it was because of... something else.

A lot of times are just like that. I'll emerge from the freeing sensation, blinking like a baby from slumber in the light and observing just long enough to take in the surroundings. Sometimes greeted by friendly people. Sometimes there are a lot of friendly people.

Sometimes not.

In the end, it doesn't matter.

In the end, I always drift away.

I don't know how long I drifted. I never do.

I wonder sometimes if I'll ever age though. I don't seem to have. Then again, what do I know.

I've never drifted into any place so... bright, so welcomingly colorful as the little hamlet I'd wound up in before. I sat against the wall of what I supposed was a bakery, gauging from the scent of pastries. It even made my mouth water a little, though I can't remember the last time I was hungry. For a while I assumed the entire place was overrun by painted animals; I've seen stranger in my time. They all gave me weird looks, but I suppose that to them, I'm the stranger one.

I was actually a bit glad that the multicolored ponies didn't react with the frightened panic that tends to greet me. It was evident with a bit of watching that the animals themselves were the occupants of the village, I even spotted one thick yellow one working tirelessly on a thatched roof not too far away. He only stared at me for a bit before resuming his work.

I mustn't have been there too long at all before acclimating myself to the area, and all without moving a muscle. It's not a skill, it just happens when bored people get curious and I don't do anything – after a number of unfortunate scenarios, I guess I learned that it's better to just not do anything at all and wait for the next drift when I can feel at peace again. It's not like it matters. I never return to the same place twice, it's better not to get too attached.

Some of the younger colts and fillies nervously inspected me, but I only sat indian style with one hand outstretched for them to examine, palm up as a gesture of peace. Then again, it might have been a war declaration here, I'd have no way of knowing without trying. It was either universal or nobody cared though, because a couple of the adults on the street shooed off the gleefully giggling children and tried talking to me after a while.

A lot of gestures and motions seem to be ingrained into almost all beings instinctively, human or otherwise. There are certain symbols and motions for simple things, like go, stop, come here, yes and no. However, a lot of times these similar motions are switched for other meanings, and I was satisfied that the adults and I seemed to have basic (very, very basic) communication down pat.

Don't get me wrong, I couldn't understand a word either of them said. The pudgy mare and the orange haired stallion seemed friendly enough though, speaking in odd pops and whinnies that felt strange on my ears. I even tried imitating a couple of their noises in hopes of learning their odd language, as I'd done many times over the course of drifting into new areas, but it was to no avail. In all likelihood, from the way that they looked at me I probably said something either nonsensical or very rude. I only shrugged apologetically, motioning that I didn't speak their language and even touting off a few more to prove my point.

Although the stallion seemed thoroughly unnerved, the mare looked to understand and gave a couple of nods. I wondered if these two were a couple, from the way they talked and their relative closeness compared to a lot of the others.

Eventually, the pudgy mare mimed that I should follow, and I braced myself internally. I always know what to expect, by this point anyway. It's completely irrelevant what happens, where I go or who I talk to, how beautiful the surroundings or how badly someone might want me to stay. I always feel that little... push. I always feel it, all the time, urging me onward into the dark.

And then I drift.

I obliged, however, slowly taking long strides behind the couple as they led me along. Showing me the landmarks. Pointing out unexpectedly friendly (and occasionally very disturbed) ponies. Talking in their strange language. It was pretty clear that they wanted to show me how pleasant the place was, and I wondered if they thought of me as an invading force. I snorted aloud at the thought, startling them both.

I'd probably just said something rude again.

I honestly did not expect them to lead me to a tree with windows built into the sides, and from the bristling look of it the 'building' seemed to be pretty healthy. A little sign waved in the cool breeze in the front, and that's when I got a genuine surprise.

Ponies, I can understand.

Talking ponies with a concept of literacy and community, I can understand.

For some reason, whatever it might have been, the sight of the unicorn holding a cup of coffee really seemed to throw me off though.

From the rows and rows of books I assumed that she (and I think it was a she, from the eyelashes, pitch of her whinnies and stance) was the building's caretaker of some sort, or maybe even a custodian or librarian from the sheer number of books lining the walls.

I cracked a joke about saving the trees, but nobody got it.

The miniature purple dragon the same color as the unicorn wasn't all that strange (and that's a sentence I never thought I'd use) compared to some other dragons that I've run into. Very intelligent creatures, I spent an entire night in profound conversation about the nature of existence with one atop a frigid aerie on the edge of a cliff. Dragons of that place had many languages, and very, very long lives – I briefly wondered just how large this little one might grow, but in all likelihood he'd never get very large.

I must have been staring at him for too long because he shyly hid behind the unicorn, nervously asking her something in their same soft, popping language.

I might have begun to catch on, enough practice with uncounted languages helps. There was a slight pause in all of their words with heavier emphasis, with light conjunctions for what were probably nouns and little tics instead of whistles or whinnies for when they wanted to insist something. I only wound up confusing them all when I tried imitating their language again, and I'll freely admit that befuddling someone via language barrier is something that I find a whole lot more entertaining than I used to. I think I used to, anyway. But that was a long time ago.

The unicorn brought the couple inside, giving me several strange looks and talking the entire way, but from the way that they presented me with my own seat and a mug of their bitter coffee, it eventually became clear that they wanted to treat me like a guest. And I did feel very much like a guest, the ponies were extremely accommodating, and presented with the opportunity they gradually became just as excitable as the fillies and colts from before.

Out of all of them the librarian seemed most excited, continuously slicking back one stray distracting strand of mane that kept getting in the way. Although I couldn't understand a word she said, it was pleasant to just sit back and listen to the sound of her voice, almost melodic. The longer I studied them the more that I realized that they all had their own near-melodic tones, though the mares seemed to be more pronounced in their speech, a little louder and a little more emphatic. It was possible that all females in this place were similar in those regards, and I was curious, but I don't think my question came out properly. Just a collection of pops and whistles is all. Instead of looking at me in confusion, this time the unicorn paused, looking hard at me and making another noise. This one was something new, like a mix between a soft whinny and a pronounced nicker. She did it again, more slowly than the first and placing a single hoof on her own chest, looking at me meaningfully, so I presumed that she might be telling me her name.

It took me a few tries, but I finally managed to get it down pat. Or close enough, anyway, the librarian was immensely pleased by this, beaming and smiling like I'd brought the sun itself to her doorstep. Then she pointed at the couple and the little dragon, ticking off their names too quickly for me to follow. The drake's pronunciation was odd and hard to say, something between a hiss and a titter. I doubted that I'd manage to get the hang of it before drifting again, but it was a fun little exercise.

Then she asked my name.

The librarian with the stray hair and a name with a whinny and nicker, the unicorn with the friendly smile and the pretty voice. She had a name. She'd told me her name.

Reaching for mine felt so natural, like waving to a childhood friend – but this time I was waving to a daydream, reaching for something that hadn't been there for a long, long time.

I sat in silence for a bit, and it was clear that she was a little upset that I either wouldn't or couldn't tell her my name. They all sat so patiently, so expectantly for me, and I had nothing to give them.

Eventually, I brought both my hands together like cupping a handful of sand, gently bringing my arms up and letting out a long breath to blow it all in the wind.

Because even if I don't have a name, that's still who I am. Amongst all else, just a grain of sand.

The librarian mimicked me, letting out a long whoosh, giving a little giggle. It was a very genuine laugh, one that brought a little laughter from the others as well, and without knowing it I was smiling too.

There were a lot of pictures around the tree cum library, and she was happy to show me them all. One of herself and a few other ponies I didn't recognize, and likely never would. What might have been family, photographs of friends, landmarks I'd never seen and memories I couldn't share.

I don't know why, but it made me feel something that I didn't like very much.

I wonder, all the time – what is a human soul without an anchor? We all wish to fly, to soar and feel the sweet touch of freedom, but is to choose that freedom a choice of our own? I don't know whether I would prefer to be happy rather than free from the anchor of life. Life is struggle. Life is constant change, and it changes us, and that stirs a fear in me so deep that no warmth can comfort it.

I wonder when I'll drift again. Sometimes I hope I don't.

She asks so many questions. In return, I ask her. It's... peaceful.

Sometimes it's worth resisting the tides of fate, that we might meet again one day on the shore.

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