Every little thing we do, we do it out of love. Love for money, fame, success, reputation, legacy, family and the list goes on and on and on. But the key element remains the same: love. Not hatred, just love. Pure. And there's a price attached to it. It's a daily process manipulated by trains of heartbeat, pints of poisoned blood, streams of stinky sweat, storms of headaches, fields of warts and godknowswhatelse. But they are worth it. Anything we do out of passion, the end result has to be bliss. Like a drunk person who lays on the side of the street unattended by civilization. Or a painter locked in his basement unmindful of the bills that are accumulating upstairs. Or an otherwise svelte housewife who is gaining weight thanks to her responsibilities nicknamed hubby, kids and in-laws. Or firefighters who enter inferno while everybody else is running out of it. What drives them? What's in there for them? Why do they appear like they are totally fine with their share of effort irrespective of the consequences? Just in case you reach that spot, do let me know how it feels like. We'll share notes.