Patiently they sit, biding their time. Eager for limelight and growing nervous. What if they pass unnoticed?
As the slow trickle of sand reaches an end some of them wonder if they have already missed their opportunity and, if so, what then? In past times they were given a new life under a different guise, a subtle shift of opinion or view rendering their colours vivid, but now their fate is less certain. They have watched, with transfixed gaze, as others have been removed and deleted and, whilst this knowledge offers little hope, some succumb quietly knowing full well that this is always how it was going to be. Fate is a fickle mystery and holds no comfort.
And still, silently, they remain. Waiting and hoping for that one brief orgasmic release, that sublime moment of dazzling light and unfettered attention. They wonder how it will be to sit alongside their own, to be considered whole and part of the same rather than singular outcasts viewed with sympathy.
Why do we tempt them so? Why do we write them only to watch as they writh and languish as our eyes pass over them each in turn only to fixate on the empty space below. Is it that we prefer the blank canvas? The renewed possibilities that tease us and offer new directions, a view uncluttered by hindsight?
We must, for how else can we suffer the incomplete, the ignored and neglected?
The lonely congregate together, drawing little solace from their shared condition, but quiet unspoken strength from their numbers.
Silently, and patiently, they wait.