I must preface that the writing below is very much stream of consciousness, and as Post-Completion as could be written. Thus, many of my thoughts have not fully digested. But nonetheless, I will document my initial reaction upon conclusion:

Well. I have completed the #1-#75 (vol 1-10) original run of The Sandman and....it is so incredibly bittersweet. One of the most wondrous bit of fiction I have ever read, and most definitely Gaiman at his finest. I know that it is not entirely the end; I have Endless Nights, Overture, Dream Hunters, and several other spin-offs--what joy! Yet I cannot bring myself to read them at the moment. I think I will sit with this story--this glorious story of stories, for the rest of the day--well, at least for the rest of the afternoon.

I felt such a connection to each and every character, and our guide, Morpheus, most of all. In the final issue, Shakespeare says he is reflected in each of his characters; and I believe in a recent interview for the Netflix adaptation, if I’m not mistaken, Gaiman had similar sentiments about Dream and the rest of his cast of characters. Anyways, I know I am not Writer nor Creator. But even as Reader I feel as if I was Morpheus. I was Hob and Delirium and Lucifer; I was Death and I was Rose. The depth and range of the human experience--soul-- that Gaiman revealed in this lovely feat of creation was astounding to behold. If I were perhaps more crafty--and of Greater Power--maybe I would find a way for every reread to feel like the first time; to relive its profound unfolding and its wistful closure--Oh, how I wish it! But I must persevere. The Tale will live on--in fact, it will bend and twist and change; it will branch off and evolve. But ever the phoenix, it will start anew; for don’t Great Stories always return to their original forms?