Why do we live? What drives us to reach out, grabbing for hopes and dreams that aren't really there. Why do we spend the little time we have trying and failing to reach that final destination that we never could, never would reach. Is this not life, a mere cycle of trying, of failing, of reaching partial but never reaching full, true success. Of finding every which way to fall, but never, ultimately reaching that end goal that we dreamed of as children. If we wish for fame, we reach fame, and wish for more. If we wish to gain happiness, we find such happiness, and then find ourselves dissatisfied at that which exists in our possession. Within us lies a hunger that can never be satisfied. Perhaps this hunger represents the unspoken ambition upon which we base our lives. For me, this hunger was not for fame, for fortune. It was not a desire for eternal happiness or for eternal grace, not for knowledge, intelligence or strength. For me, this hunger was for something more, something inexplicable. As I grew, I watched helplessly as those in whom I had placed my love died, taken from me by the cruel hands of time and circumstance. My spirit, my hope for something better, dwindled, accompanied by an ever-increasing feeling of remorse, of self-hatred. My family and friends, caught in war, turned to dust too soon and destined forevermore to float upon the winds of inevitable human conflict. Gone, now no more than stories, for in the end we are all stories. Mere mirages, passed along by word of mouth, soon to flicker from existence by those who replace us. I hungered, not for love, money or drugs. I hungered to live forever, not as a story, or as a legend. I hungered for that which we see only in our dreams. To be hit with a bullet, so that we may then shrug it off; to stumble from a cliff, just to stand at the bottom; to drown, so that we may breath again. For me, it was more than just a dream. I am Artúro Escútia, and this is my story.
