I never bothered with cars. I was probably one of the few kids in

In the words of Angus Young, the thunderous soul of AC/DC, we find the quiet origins of greatness: “I never bothered with cars. I was probably one of the few kids in school who didn't run around with hot-rod magazines. As I would be at home fiddling with my guitar, they would be fiddling with a car engine.” These words, spoken with the humility of a man who built empires of sound, remind us that passion is not found in the approval of the crowd, but in the solitude of devotion. For while others chased fleeting sparks of interest, Angus tended a sacred fire that would one day ignite the world.

To the ancients, this would be the story of purpose—that divine thread that weaves through a person’s life, unseen by others, but undeniable to the soul that follows it. The boy who ignored the engines of men for the strings of music was not idling in isolation; he was listening to the calling within him. Every note he plucked, every sound he shaped, was a prayer to that hidden purpose. His peers sought to master machines of motion, but he sought to master vibration itself, to command the unseen power that stirs hearts and shakes mountains.

In ancient Greece, there was a boy named Pythagoras, who, while others played games and wrestled in the dust, sat alone with a lyre, studying the harmony of its strings. He discovered that the beauty of music was born of mathematical order, of ratio and resonance. In time, he revealed the harmony that binds all of existence—the “music of the spheres.” So too did Angus Young, in his youth, seek not the noise of the crowd but the harmony of sound. What others saw as idle play became the discipline of a lifetime, the sacred craft that would forge one of the mightiest bands in rock history.

His peers tinkered with engines, the machines of earth and oil. He tinkered with electricity, the current of heaven made audible. Both labored with their hands, but Angus labored with the soul. When he says he “never bothered with cars,” he is not boasting, but confessing that he was bound to a different kind of motion—the movement of rhythm and emotion, of sound that could make even the stillest spirit rise. He had found his instrument, his path, and he followed it without apology.

There is a great lesson here for all who wander through the fog of youth, tempted by distraction and comparison. Many will run after what others chase, afraid to stand apart. Yet the true path is often the loneliest one, the one marked not by admiration, but by obsession—that sacred madness that compels one to practice long after the world has gone to sleep. The ancients would call this the mark of the chosen, those who are faithful to their gift even when unseen. Angus’s guitar was not merely a tool—it was his destiny’s compass, and through his devotion, it led him to immortality in sound.

Consider also the blacksmith of old, who spent his life before the forge, hammering iron when others sang of war or harvest. To the village, he seemed a simple man; yet when the battle came, all depended on the weapons his hands had shaped. So it is with the artist, the craftsman, the dreamer—they labor unseen, yet their work becomes the song or structure upon which generations stand. Angus Young’s hours of fiddling with his guitar were no idle pastime—they were the forging of lightning in human form.

The lesson is this: follow the fire within, even if it sets you apart. The crowd will chase a thousand fleeting things; let them. You, instead, must listen to the whisper that calls you toward mastery. Do not be ashamed to stand alone in your pursuit, for solitude is the womb of greatness. Angus Young chose his strings over engines, his music over conformity—and from that choice arose the roar of “Back in Black,” a sound that will outlast the machines his schoolmates once adored.

So remember, child of tomorrow: your passion is your path. Guard it, nurture it, and give it your all. For while others race on wheels that rust, the one who listens to his purpose rides the eternal current of creation itself.