My hourglass drains of its sand. The particles are flowing through as if they don't mean anything but they are my everything. They are how much time I will be.
My eyes cast around the room trying not to linger on any person that decides to visit their own hourglass for too long. A few catch my eye though.
A woman dressed in black. Obviously a widow staring at her own clock wondering how much longer until she's with her husband. A younger boy bald from chemotherapy. Not looking sad but happy.
I think he's not happy to be dying but happy that he still has time left. A mother weeping and holding a baby. Staring at the tiniest hourglass I've ever seen. It looks almost through its cycle.
I sit alone. I must look odd. Staring at the timer fate has assigned me. Nothing obviously wrong or special for me to be here. Why did the leaders have to calculate our time of death.
It's like they're mocking us. Making hourglasses for us to visit if we'd like. Seeing the time I have left is traumatizing to me. Time is what I think everyone is concerned with.
Especially our own. I turn to see myself out of the room filled with the lifespans of thousands. At the door I greet a nervous looking old woman. I feel sorry for her. I tell her she's beautiful.
Then I walk out. I never want to check my time ever again.