#Ya'll don't wanna see me go into the details of my love for LOTR's

[roughdraftsofachaoticmind]

The Sandman.

I can’t properly put into words how The Sandman show makes me feel. But I’m going to try. So, lets start at the beginning.  I’m the youngest of three and there are large gaps between me and my sisters 7 and 12 years older than me, they were mainly my semi-reluctant babysitters. My eldest sister was big into the grunge and goth subculture that flourished in the 90′s and my middle sister was more into the boho chic and me? Just a weird amalgamation of a child. We didn’t bond very much which isn’t something I hold against them, our ages were so staggered, we were in such different journeys in our lives. However they always shared their books. Books on mythologies, Goosebumps and too many comics to count. My middle sister introduced me to Death: At Death’s Door by Jill Thompson. I was enthralled. I was in love. It was strange and like nothing I’d ever seen. I would read it over and over again. That comic was with me all the times, it brought me comfort like a teddy bear or blanket might do for another child. I would proudly show it to anyone who would give me a moment to talk about my interests.  Later in my young life my oldest sister would introduce me to Volume One of The Sandman. Preludes & Nocturnes. A dramatic difference to Death: At Death’s Door and I was once again enraptured by the comic. I latched onto the weird and colourful world that was sprawled upon the pages, at a different look at characters I’d come to love. This book too would now come with me everywhere, tucked in beside the love worn pages of the other for whenever I had a moment to read.  Things rapidly changed as I hit my teens, my life entirely tipped over and emptied by divorce, drugs and abuse. My sisters now old enough to have their own lives left and had taken their belongings with them as one does. And the once cramped room we all somehow managed to not kill each other in was empty. All their books now lined their own homes and the only ones I had were those tucked away in my bag. The only two pieces of my sisters I would have for many years as family arguments chased away any get togethers and divided us.  Pieces that felt like they were apart of the building blocks of me would be taken from me as my school councilor would deem the reading material too old for me and take them from me. They said it was to protect my young mind but it felt as if they had done it for any reason but to protect me, I was distraught beyond reason.  Libraries became my solace. A place where no one would take my books from me, a place where I could come to visit the stories that brought me so much comfort, a place to discover more than I could imagine. A place where free coffee went unwatched and may be the reason I am only 5′5″. The librarians there were unbelievably kind and always kept two copies of both books in case anyone else wanted to check them out there would still be a copy for me to read. All their kindness however could not bring me the feel of the worn edges of my books, they could not give me back the memories that flooded my system as I’d look upon the pages I’d coloured in my youth.  Eventually CAS tore me from my home and my school was forced to give back everything they’d taken from me over the years. I was reunited with my books, books I would need more than ever as I was thrown around the unmonitored foster care system. My weird amalgamation of self was stripped until I was more or less deemed normal enough to be placed with my mother, enough therapy until I could answer correctly. Books and trinkets no longer kept in my bag but lining a shelf neatly as all rational things should be. Comforting items such as were meant for babies and toddlers not teens heading into adulthood.  Angst, trauma, hormones and all that comes with being 16 dragged me far from books. Years spent angry at the world, at family I had believed abandoned me, Anarchy ever on my mind after suffering at the hands of flawed government agencies. I was barely home to sleep let alone look at my book shelf.  My anger dissolved as I got older and was replaced with the feeling of being lost, trying to reclaim who I was and discover the new parts of me, the ever massive question of finding my path in life weighing on my mind. Waiting for me dusty on my shelves were books that when I opened still gave me such a sense of comfort. Words I could recite with my eyes closed still filled me with wonder when I stared at them on the page.  That brings us to the fairly recent, the release of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman on Netflix. To spite having typed so many words here I’m still at a loss. It brought me to comforting tears, tears of joy, unshed tears of loneliness and of belonging. The first 5 episodes and a bit of the 6th are from Volume One of The Sandman. Preludes & Nocturnes. I could barely believe it as I watched the pages I’d become to familiar with sprawl upon the screen just as enthrallingly beautiful as the first time I’d opened the comic. Watching the series brought me back to being small, in the room with my sisters, sitting on our bunk beds and just reading together without a worry in the world, moments where the tenderness had been lost upon me were brought back full force. The immense warmth that filled my chest to the point of bursting. Each actor enrapturing the character they played, leaping from the pages with grace. Every actor clearly chosen for capturing the character’s essence. Lines of dialog dripping from the pages and into my ears. I can’t describe The Sandman as anything other than perfect. It happened no moment sooner or later than it was supposed too, all those who were right for the job found at the right time.  When I finished the first 5 episodes and it started with the new arc I worried I would feel disconnected. I make no claims to be the biggest Neil Gaiman fan or even the biggest Sandman fan for that matter, I know two comics very well and have read a handful of the others, whatever was available at my library at the time but that was many years ago and my library didn’t have all his comics. I didn’t recognize Rose Walker, I didn’t know about Vortex’s and so I was worried that I may not experience the same level of joy, that I would fall out of love with these characters. I did not.  It was wonderful. It was the opposite of what I had feared. Instead now my brain was enthralled with ‘what would happen next?’ as I no longer had the answers. And the same way I had fallen in love with the books and their unknowns I fell in love with the rest of the season and it’s unknowns. I see new parts of characters I feel I’ve known for most of my life and I adore it with everything in me.  As I introduced, I don’t have the words to describe what the books and this show means to me. But I’ve tried and I can only hope that in reading this I can convey my Endless love for what The Sandman has given me for nearly 20 years.