Echoes in the Ruins

They called it civilization still, but it was little more than an illusion—hollow and flickering like the last light of a dying fire. The world had regressed into tribalism, fractured into warring factions drawn along lines of ideology, identity, and desperation. Communities once held together by shared purpose and civil discourse had splintered into bitter enclaves that saw every outsider as a threat. The common good was a memory, replaced by suspicion, entitlement, and fear.

In the shadow of crumbling cities, people no longer worked together to build anything of value. Instead, they gathered in makeshift assemblies, shouting over each other with outstretched hands—not to offer help, but to demand more. More food. More protection. More comfort. The government, if it could still be called that, was a patchwork of bloated officials and shameless opportunists, surviving on grift and theater. Politicians postured like emperors of old, doling out empty promises while siphoning resources behind closed doors. They ruled not by merit or strength, but through spectacle, bribes, and manipulation.

Hours each day were wasted in endless queues and crowded forums where the masses pleaded for salvation—rations, housing, medication. The people had traded liberty for dependency long ago, and now clung to the state like children to a cruel and distant parent. They forgot how to fend for themselves. Forgotten how to build. How to think. They didn’t ask if the state should provide—only why it hadn’t yet.

It was Rome again, but worse—because this time, there was no new world waiting to rise in its place. Just echoes in the ruins and the gnawing certainty that the fall was not just near—it had already happened.