The spines of the asterisk press hard into his back. Only the taut fabric of his suit jacket prevents them from piercing his flesh. Stooped by its burden, briefcase in hand, he hurries to the tram-stop in the dull evening rain after another long day of Hardly-Passion-Inducing work.
Many of us have an asterisk.
For some, it is a symbol of what life might have been and a burden of regret. If only…he’d finished high school, he wouldn’t still be working as a kitchenhand. If only she had chosen a career she loved, she wouldn’t be so resentful of her empty life. If only he hadn’t slept with his secretary, his marriage wouldn’t be disintegrating into a miserable dust.
Others carry it proud on their shoulder, a reference to their other identities. A CEO, who is also a marathon runner. A single mother, who is completing her PhD. An accountant, who moonlights as a jazz drummer.
And a few have no asterisk at all. Their work is their passion, their passion their life, and their life is art itself. They are *Inspiration*.
Perhaps this is the beginning of mine.