"The painting"

He spent his entire life painting it. In his head. By the time he was forty, he already had it perfectly defined up there. Every stroke, every color, every exact shade and lighting had been thought of.

He had seen himself forced to work laboring, boring, mind-numbing tasks in an uncreative repetitive job to have the luxury of a roof under his head and food on his plate. He had to work in order to live. And he had to live, because he had a purpose. And that purpose, was the painting.

While his work partners' souls kept dying little by little, his not only remained intact, but grew, flying back to his painting, to his one true work. As his brain wasn't much needed for his mindless job, as soon as he checked in, his mind separated from his body to the much awaited time when he'd be able to stand in front of his perfect-sized canvas, surrounded by all the down to detail right supplies, and paint.

Finally, he'd have the means, the time and the easiness of mind to finally get to paint.