I have stopped romanticizing the idea of pursuing a career
in writing. For the longest time, I wanted to share my words with the world. Off-lately,
I've come to realize that i don't really have much to offer.
What I thought was passion, was a phase, which passed away.
Reading is imperative for a writer and I hardly do it. It is the most basic
exercise but i just don't feel like doing it.
I have been advised so many times, by friends, family and
even colleagues, to let go of the lethargic attitude and focus on the task at hand. But,
those words fell on deaf ears.
For the record, I am a journalist. But this was not a deliberate choice; it was more a twist of fate. This realization alone explains a lot about my current state of mind.
I remember reading once that 'when we set sail in
search of our life's work, we must first look for passion. Not fame or rewards
or riches, but a willingness to quietly do our work'.
It appears my search is far from over. This is what I choose to believe, at least for now.
When you encounter people who've dedicated themselves to greater causes, it's inspiring. Their stories motivate you, and you find yourself walking their path, aspiring to be like them. Yet, in this pursuit, there's a risk of losing your own identity.
This journey, filled with inspiration and confusion, leaves me pondering my next steps. Maybe the search for my true calling is just beginning, and perhaps in this quest, I will discover more about myself than I ever knew.
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