The Void
Time meant nothing in the void. It seemed elastic, where sometimes he felt as if he had only ever existed in the empty blackness, for eons without end. At other moments he was haunted by memories so sharp and raw that they might have happened only hours before. Time stretched and snapped back leaving him exhausted, limp and yet tense. Present, past and future blended and overlapped, seemingly rendering the passage of time null, so that it became only an abstract and distant concept for him to contemplate.
The memories he retained to assure him that there was life at one time outside of the void brought him little solace. They tumbled around in his head like a falling house of cards. Each individual memory was clear, depicting a small snapshot of his life. Most of the ones he remembered were sharp, the edges of the card more likely to cut than anything else. He pondered on them, built them up together to analyze. He tried to stack them and organize them to give him some semblance of being, but he was never able to complete the picture before they swayed and shattered down, leaving him more confused and distraught than before.
He was assaulted by a constant feeling of suffocation, but he never stopped breathing; he never reached that point of death that he so longed for. It was cold and empty, and there was no difference if his eyes were open or shut. There was no smell, no noise, and no sensation of touch except the frost that he suspected he brought himself. There was nothing in the void to assure him that he was more than a wisp of consciousness floating in an endless expanse of non-existence. He felt like he had a mind, but no brain. A soul, but no physical body.
He continued in this state of empty non-being for an eternity or a day. Time meant nothing in the void. Life meant nothing in the void.