Ideas are sand within an upright hourglass. The shifting changes of the world upend and unsettle the neat pile of hopes, thoughts, and wishes. Each grain tumbles and fights for its turn through the bottleneck. They make their inevitable way toward the bottom which was once the top, a world turned upside down. But only one grain may pass through the narrow opening at a time. Only one idea—one view—may hold the fleeting passage of time before yielding to the next. And the next. And the next. Until...
At the end of the grain's journey (which you could argue
is also the beginning), after a hard landing against others below and
beside, it comes to rest so that it may watch the progression of the
rest of his kind. Will it sit at the top, aglow with the unexpected
triumphant of the last-become-first? Or does it cower in its fear of the
first-become-last? When the glass tips again, it will find its place
buried below thousands, or millions, of its kin. Quickly forgotten by
the world for all the shiny ideas stifling it.