The final dying of a hope is, I think, one of the most painful of things. Hopes embody a host of unpleasantries, attendant amidst the shadows of the dreams and desires that accompany it. The death of a hope, of a dream, is singularly distressing. It brings with it a realisation, a despair, a recognition that finally there is nowhere to go, that all that was endeavoured was for naught. In its wake comes despair, sadness, pain. This is the price of hope, that in its failure we should experience such feelings to an acute degree, such was the investment in that hope.
And so hope dies, and pain flowers fully, and the world moves on, uncaring in its implacable immensity. And, yet, beyond hope's despair? Other hopes arise, other dreams, other throws of a crooked die, and thus the cycle continues, ever in search of those rare moments of a joy when a hope becomes tangible and real and present.