Time had always felt empty. Their fingertips always had felt numb, and their joints buzzed. They couldn’t even remember a time when they were truly at peace.
It was dark; Obviously. Time couldn’t see a thing, and reversing time itself(natural, normal) had changed nothing.
Everything was black, as it always had been. Never was a time when it wasn’t.
So why did their heart ache like there was something to be seen?
There was nothing! Why did their heart throb; why did it shriek that something just— just wasn’t right, not at all, that it was gone, that they had lost something, someone—
There was nothing.
...no light, no nothing.
And Time could feel their ribs caving into their heart.
They curved inward like a pair of horns, growing and splitting into their veins, every single vein feeling like they were full, bloated, feeling like their heart stopped pumping blood through them, and the horns stabbed through their spine and it hurt, it hurt, it hurts so much and they couldn’t breathe, god, they couldn’t see—
There was nothing.
Nothing at all.
How could someone ever say this could be beautiful?
Sometimes, the sensation of fingertips running down their (aching, bleeding,)spine jolts them awake from their slumber.
Was there someone? Someone in this darkness, someone who could help them regain their lost sanity? Or were they imagining things?
They couldn’t know the difference between it all. Unconscious or conscious, there was nothing to see.
Sometimes, Time thinks they hear whispers, little callings that rip into their ribcage and tug their heart away by the heartstrings. Sometimes they think they can recognize the voice, even though there was nothing but nothing to see.
Sometimes, the voice cries.
Ugly, desperate sobs fill the void, and they don’t know whether they should (guiltily, selfishly) appreciate the something that fills that ugly, desperate, hungry black hole of nothing at all, or should they cry with them, for having lived here, for having nothing for so long that anything is a blessing.
The subtle notion that even being here was living should make Time want to laugh.
Were they imagining this, too? There was no way to tell.
There was no way to know.
Suddenly, a glimmer of something caught their eye. Something white. Something shining, sparkling in the void—really, all that mattered was that it was something.
Shortly after gazing at it in a daze, others followed.
Instantly it was like the Void wasn’t void at all; Not anymore. It was like it was made to compliment the light.
Like it was made to be a part of it.
Distantly, as if they weren’t there, Time tried to cup one into their hands.
They flowed away from them as ribbons turned live.
Time couldn’t help it. They giggled, the sound, the something that they just uttered from their mouth confirming that this was real, that they weren’t dreaming—!
(They never spoke in their dreams.)
How could someone call this anything but beautiful?
(Distantly, Time could hear sobbing. But unlike the other voice, the sounds were delicate and mournful. Not desperate, not begging.
Were they imagining things?
Dear god, They hoped not.
They really hoped not.)