Cities in His Head

by xsaturnine

And when he finally falls, he falls like an empire.

Another drabble, which is the highest level of writing I will ever be able to achieve. Because I am absolutely pants at writing (coherent) plot.

Disclaimer: Owning him would go under the category of "Never But Thanks For Trying, Really."

He wonders if any of this is real; little people building cities in his head, their voices a bittersweet cacophony that paints his loneliness a vivid, choleric red.

He wonders if their sky is what his eyes see and if their gods are the thoughts that run rampant through his mind.

He wonders if they measure wealth in bits of knowledge daringly salvaged from shipwrecked memories and slithering secrets that he cages and tries to drown.

But when he speaks, he speaks true as a prophecy, though where he is now, no one hears him. His words reach only himself and the people in their cities in his mind, and sometimes it hurts, because he cannot lie to soften the needle-prick pain of self-destructive truth.

He wraps around himself the bone-white emptiness, like the ragged sail of a ghost ship no one believes in anymore.

And when he finally falls, he falls like an empire, and out of the mortar and crumbled stone, a new hope flies, imperfect, soulless, and blind.