The Mapmaker.

There is a man who draws maps of the cities in his head.

One day he sat down and began to draw the places in his head. He started at the doorstep, his mouth, and began to explore the world surrounding his fingers. The cities his hands built grew larger and larger until the paper in front of him could no longer hold all he gave. It began to sink under the weight of the lives this man drew, all the heartaches and pains and happiness, all the new romances and old lives and people living with secrets like anxiety and pregnancy and arachnophobia. He drew and drew, each place became a part of himself, his fingers in the smoky jazz bar that the man with one suit finally found the courage to talk to the dark haired girl. His eyebrows were in the centre of the park, hiding all the lost balls and Frisbees and the memory of that one night where the new couple who drank too much found out what else they liked about each other. The street where the young boy made his first mugging was the scar above his right knee, and there he wrote graffiti of the things he told himself not to forget, but one day the council would come and try to erase it all. Before he knew it, he was drawing a whole world of himself, all the places he had sworn to never forget, the people he had met and loved and admired on the train, all the contradictions and stupidities and immensities and tiny parts of himself were not ties up, drawn into this world. Now he is not sure which is more real, this person who holds the pen or the world he has created out of himself.