His world was frozen.
Stagnant, rather, is perhaps the right word for the petrified state of his dwelling place. He'd long forgotten what it felt like to inhale pure air: untainted by the bitter tang of iron. Too long ago had he been trapped in a state of in-between, chained as the one who wrought sorrow upon the conscious. Too long ago had he ceased experiencing hate towards his predicament, succumbing to a cycle of endless paralysis; thus, frozen.
Too long ago had he stopped living.
The ravages of time meant nothing to him now. Cursed, he was, to live forever in a state of non-living. Not to his body, nor mind, nor soul.
Soul, he laughed bitterly. What soul?
His soul had been extinguished long ago. Perhaps he missed it. But he wouldn't know.
For he no longer wished to know.
He no longer wished to experience, for he had seen all that could be seen from his unshackled manacles time and time again. Time, and time, and time... so many times that time itself no longer meant a thing. As the meaning of time decreased, the meaning of nothing increased. But with nothing, came the incredible longing for something. A longing that kept him going, fuelled by the thought that perhaps one day, he would find what he longed for.
Thus appeased his paralyzed turmoil.
