Nothing can match the joy of finishing a piece of writing: a story, a poem, a review, an article, a novel. It gives nothing in return, no compensation, no immediate results, no acknowledgement. No questions asked, no difference of opinion, no approval needed, no ‘why didn’t you do it this way?’, no ‘it could have been better with this change’. No reason, no explanation to anyone. Nothing but the profound, immense, tremendous, inexplicable satisfaction of completing a task to perfection set by my own standards. A word of appreciation doesn’t hurt, of course, but the absence of it would do swell too. No matter if that creation never sees the light of day. It becomes all the more special when created on time squeezed out between the regular pressures of life. A secret, personal joy that I share with no one. Even the most frustrated writer would have several such moments. A feeling that was unfamiliar to me a few years ago, when all that mattered was acknowledgement, acceptance and encouragement. When everything else goes by someone else’s definition, this becomes my private property for me to treat as I wish.

Each one of us has one passion. Sometimes visible; sometimes buried beneath years of piled-up junk, also so called ‘priorities’ of life. Someone told me recently that his passion is making money. He said that from his youth, he gravitated towards a profession that brought in more money, when his friends looked for meaningful careers. He had a creative talent that he considered nothing more than a hobby or pastime because it wasn’t lucrative. His job brought him money and the money made him happy. This happiness made him work harder; he excelled at the job and made more money. (Some of us romantics would say that his real passion was what he referred to as his ‘hobby’, but he chooses to disagree.)

Life is meaningless if we do not search for our passion, find it (in a way that satisfies us) and give it the attention it deserves. Step back from the merry-go-round and it will spring to view.