His world was dark.
But it's not like he wasn't used to it.
In fact, darkness was his home. He lived in it, and in turn, it lived in him. It was the void of silence filling his mind; the mundane repetitions, chiming incessantly and bleeding through his translucent spirit. It was all he knew.
He must have known something else, once. Something soft and full of colour, the kind of knowing that filled one's heart, making it soar up his throat and out of his mouth in a chain of three words-- what were they, again?
He did not know, for he did not care to know. His life was complete, at least, as complete as he could ever hope for it to be. Hope: what an empty word it is! Every aspect of it mocked his very being, carving taunting laughter within him, creating an unstoppable desire to retch and reject. To push life away and to cower within himself.
Yet, he was needed. He was needed in this world, a morbid form of control that kept life in check; the inevitable factor that balanced the scale. He was the ultimate herald of time, the final parental figure that reminded the unwilling child: "It's time to go home."
He was used to the darkness, and the darkness was used to him.
He used the darkness, and the darkness used him.
He was the darkness, but the darkness brought them to light.
