I have a hobby.
A hobby that could be viewed as pointless, given the amount of time that it takes out of an already hectic life.
One that can be seen as selfish, as it ostensibly benefits no one but myself.
A hobby that has no end goal attached to it, and no clear place in the grand scheme of things that is life.
A rather mundane form of exercise that can, nevertheless, both frustrate and exhilarate, often at the same time.
On the other hand …
… the whole point of a hobby is that it has none, and that in itself can be strangely liberating, especially in a world where we are forever pressured into setting goals, having a purpose and striving helter-skelter towards some mythical end.
… and while this hobby of mine may be regarded as selfish, that is only because outside people don’t see the positive impact it has on me on the inside, by affording me time to reminisce, reflect and indeed re-acquaint with myself.
… furthermore, the lack of its place in the grand scheme of things is precisely the reason why it deserves a place in the very epicentre of life, lest we take it all too seriously.
… finally, the mundaneness of this hobby belies its peculiar ability to elicit thoughts and emotions that are, otherwise, difficult to verbalise.
This hobby that I’m referring to is, of course … Writing.
After all, if it wasn’t for this hobby, how else would I be able to communicate my passion for the two other hobbies in my life – Jogging and Daddying?
And, believe me, these two other hobbies DO have a place in the grand scheme of things that is life!
Keep on pounding.