The sand in the hourglass isn't moving too quickly, but the levels on the top dips lower as each grain passes through.
The room where the hourglass sits on the small side table in the corner is ornately furnished. The type of room where one would never lament a few hours spent in its company.
The sand continues to fall in its inconspicuous and nearly silent way, but one doesn't mind its steady slowness.
The room has several windows. Providing light and a lovely view. When the window is open, birds can be heard; wind, waves, and the whisper of a bigger, brighter world.
The door is locked. But the sand in the hourglass isn't moving too quickly. And there are so many things in the room to do.
The library is vast and wonderful. Filled with books on every topic. There's beautiful artwork too. Stirring and emotional. Easy to spend time studying and learning. All for the sake of edification. Turn on the record player, listen to the melodies of whatever you wish.
Drown out the quiet fall of the sand. The sand isn't moving too quickly. But the door is locked. The view out the window unchanged.
You've read the library a hundred times through. You've stared at the paintings again and again. Memorized each record track by track. The room is beautiful. But you can only rearrange the furniture in so many ways.
The view is lovely. But the sunshine beckons to you. It's no longer enough to hear the wind--you want to feel it. Feel it before the sand drains completely.
The sand in the hourglass doesn't fall too quickly, but now there is plenty on the bottom piling up. The room is stifling. No longer is it enough to keep the window open. The room feels smaller. Each hour is spent in the same way.
What's beyond the locked door?
These books are too familiar. There are permanent indentations in the frequently sat upon furniture. The sand in the hourglass isn't falling too quickly, but dammit, it's still falling.
The wind howls and beckons; the sun shines and like a siren it calls. If only you could feel the elements just once on your own skin.
Every shelf has been dusted and cleaned. It's all been organized and reorganized. There's a well-worn favorite path about the room, but no square inch is unfamiliar.
What's beyond the locked door?
Perhaps just another room. Perhaps just a little more access? Not a full egress to the outdoors. The unknown is tantalizing.
The sand moves--not too quickly. But it is draining. Are these the only walls you'll ever see? The only books you'll ever read? It's a glorious room, but is this all there is ever going to be?
How long can you enjoy the comforts and pleasantries of the only thing you'll ever experience before it becomes a cage? A cell. A sentence. Unbearable.
The sand isn't falling too quickly, but you resent it falling at all. Before you're ready. Before there is a chance at change.
The view remains the same. The walls still your prison. The weather is untouchable. Would that you could escape! The beyond is just out that window and heartbreakingly unreachable.
The door is still locked and the sand is still falling. What joy then from the delights of the room? This room is no more capable of providing happiness. Escape is the only solution.
The door must be unlocked. The key must be found! There has to be an exit. The sand will still fall, but at least behind the scenes.
It's isn't falling too quickly. But you'll be damned if you have to sit and watch it.