“This is all I got?” The man asked, looking up from the sand he had cupped in his hands. There was no-one to answer his question, however. Everyone else was too busy with their own handfuls.

He briefly noticed that there was some disparity in the amounts that had been doled out. Some had rather a lot, some had less. There seemed to be no real standard level that was being given out. He had very little time to ponder on this before the feeling of the sand slipping away between his fingers pulled him back to his own problems.

“Oh dear,” he said.

Ensuring that his sand stayed put became his primary concern. If he cupped his hands as tight as he possibly could it felt like he managed to keep it all in one place. He didn't of course, and a tiny trickle was still escaping second by second, but he felt better about it. A little bit better.

“You might wanna do something with that before you lose too much,” someone said to him. They were making a sandcastle. The man found their work sloppy, albeit enthusiastic. In his opinion a waste of said. The someone seemed pretty happy with it though.

“Nah. In a minute. Just holding onto it for now,” the man said, moving on. He saw others doing the same as him which made him feel better, though here and there a minority were already putting their sand to use. How did they know what to do with it so soon? The man was baffled. He needed a little time to get things settled, get things straight.

This state of affairs continued for some time. Months, in fact. Years, in fact, once months went on for long enough. Still he kept a tight grip on his sand, doing his level-best to hold onto as much as possible while battling the creeping awareness that he was losing more and more of it no matter how hard he tried. He definitely had less than he started with, that was for sure.

Some of his associates (and those he spotted in his day-to-day life) had started to settle down at this point. Either having nurtured an idea of what they'd wanted to do with their sand from the very beginning and finally deciding to go through with it, or else being suddenly inspired by some event in their life. Either way they set to work. Meanwhile the man did not.

“Not yet, I'm afraid,” he said to those who asked if he was going to get started. He still had no idea what to do. He saw what everyone else was doing of course. Weird little glass sculptures. More sandcastles. The occasional hourglass. All intriguing and worthwhile uses it was true, but none that spoke to him. Or at least none that he felt he could do well. All these were beyond him and his meagre abilities, he was sure.

“I'll find something, don't you worry!” He assured anyone listening, including himself. He added no real details to this vaguest of plans though, and it remained utterly ephemeral even as time went on and even as he came to repeat it. He was not finding anything, and he did not even appear to be trying that hard, if people were honest.

Some people, seeing that he appeared to be floundering or at least coasting, came up with suggestions on what he might do with his (dwindling) sand. They made their suggestions based on what they saw him enjoy and what they thought he was good at. He took these suggestions on board and did nothing with them, continuing to cup his sand as it dribbled away further.

It got to a point where almost everyone around him was making a go of doing the best with what they had while he continued to hoard his sand and do nothing. This caused no small measure of internal agony, though he told no-one. He was fine, he said. Didn't have any plans anyway.

He was actively avoiding having any plans, in fact. Formulating plans would involve contemplating how little sand he had, while not having any plans meant he could continue ignoring it. Ignoring it allowed him to imagine that it was that little bit more than it actually felt like, which was good. So he continued in this vein.

He continued to the point where denial simply wasn't an option anymore. No longer could he pretend that he was just biding his time and looking for something worthwhile to do. That opportunity had long since passed, that window had long since closed. He had missed it. He was now stuck. His sand had all-but run out.

Not that there was anyone left to point this out to him, other than himself. They'd all gone off, done things, made choices and picked directions. They'd left him in the dust – so to speak – bereft of sand and all alone.

Turning his hand he watched as the last few grains trickled away. They were snatched almost at once by the wind and blown out of sight in a moment. That was it. All gone. Could have made something of it, once. Maybe. If he'd tried. Not so much now. Too late.

Oh well.