A young man, too much of his life had been spent wanting things he knew he�d never get a hold of. But that�s what hope was. �I don�t believe in hope anymore.� Perhaps they were just words he thought to make himself feel bigger, stronger; or perhaps it was the truth. There would be moments he was convinced that the world was against him, and with this his hope flew out of the proverbial window. A man could only take so much before he cracked.

A hand, not as perfectly lengthened as most, brushed dark hair from his eyes, allowing it to curtain over his fringe untidily. He would often stare through it as though it were a dark veil, though he lacked a reason for doing so. Perhaps in curtaining his eyes, he curtained himself from others� eyes that would stare to him; it saved him the trouble of lowering his gaze or glancing away as though something not there had caught his interest. Of course, there were occasions when such a thing did happen� his interest did not land on the path laid out before him, or the greens of the lawns growing obliviously as they always did in an endless life cycle� instead he was in that world of his own where he could ponder the �what ifs� of life. What if he had played his cards differently? What if he had not lost those he had grown to care about through stupid means. Better yet, he would consider, what if he had never cared at all. But he knew deep down that no man or woman was free of dreams. He differed, he would decide, in that his dreams were never realized.

The sounds of his favourite songs played over in his head as dark shoes bore him across his travels, he could find himself soothed within the lyrics. So much for all the promises they made. Promises meant so little when you could never know if they were real; promises like all things were made to be broken; and they were. Every fall though, he had found somewhere to turn, something to pick him up off the ground. A means to go on, a metaphorical rope to pull him up, a ladder to climb. He found a way to make things right. It is said, time heals wounds. But he knew that the always unspoken ending for the proverb was that scars remain forever. This time though, he had not found that rope. The ladder had been missing. He did not know where to head, his newest escape route had just closed, and so suddenly. He had seen it coming, too, but there was that moment� just a few days� where it had seemed possible. She might want him after all.

She had not. And with that the memories came back, like a flood, for memories die hard. He knew this all too well; he was a nostalgic person at heart. His few friends had warned him, always warning, that he back off� that he drop it all. There was always a reason to them, a reason why this one wasn�t right for him. He�d always find himself attracted to the women that were poisonous snakes; always a reason for everything to go wrong. His friends were, inevitably, right.

He would carry on going, though, he always did. Life had surprises in store for him, two years back he could never have predicted what had in fact happened. He�d often wished he could catch just a glimpse of his future� a musing he so commonly held dear, that single desire to know who would fade into memories and who would be by his side, if he was destined not to remain alone. And so he continued for this reason, one foot after another, to discover.

Only by the will to embrace the �what ifs� would he continue; for he was a person as long as he dreamt; as long as he wanted that future that he imagined. But that future was always changing, never a single dream, and he thought that every time he grasped something it would slip between his fingers. Every time.

Reaching deep into his chest, he removed the heart that beat his lifeblood around his body. The gap in his ribcage was ample size to let the organ free, and with a wet slap, it met the gravel and his body faded, like all his dreams, like all his desires; submit to memories.