There were no more nights of sleep. Each night, eyes stitched open, Poxig awaited his ultimate fate, which was possible execution. He did not see what was necessary for survival, only saturated nonsense pervaded his psyche. By this time, he should have been exonerated, and yet, here he was near the gallows.
There was no longer the need for courage, since his mind had retreated into itself. All that John and Poxig could do was stare at each other; no words were spoken. Poxig remained tethered to his hope that at some point he would see daylight, but until that day, he would fend off the melancholy of this isolation.
Poxig knew he was innocent. But now he thought of whether it was possible to suffer for a higher purpose. This was the manifest content of what could be labeled as a “prayer.” Although he had never prayed, he realized that certain events were not in his control. In this dungeon, prayer was the only thing that he could focus on. Relying on Releven, instead of his ephemeral thoughts, seemed to be the only path forward.
Somehow, he would see further than his own temporary chains. These were the four walls of his freedom. He no longer lived an external life, but bent toward the introspective. He remembered the Latin phrase: “saecula saeculorum.” Time outside of time.