What Marks the Time
What marks the time in a place such as this? Is it the dripping of water from the constantly damp ceiling. Could it be the moans that reverbarate through the stone passage ways. Perhaps it's the crack of the whip or its answering scream. Or, maybe it's the terrifying echo of well worn leather boots steadily walking your direction.
What marks the passing time in a place such as this? Is the time truly passing at all? Or rather, is it worth marking in a place such as this? Surely not in terms that most would understand.
What is the meaning of hours, days, and weeks in a place such as this? Here time passes with the meager meals and grimy water, with beatings and filthy leers. It's marked by the crescendo of pain and the coveted feeling of relief when you're not next.
The passing of time is not marked by sleep in a place such as this. For when you cannot tell reality from the nightmare, why risk your meager sanity for rest you shan't receive in a place such as this? Where your mind cannot settle as the sounds of time pasing reverberate through your mangled subconcious.
I wonder, as I lay here wrapped in my ponderings of time and the dubious conception of its passing, why the human mind bothers to mark the passing time at all, even not in a place such as this. For what is the meaning of time and its passing but growing closer to the fragility of age and the intoxicating darkness of death.