His hands were placed above the keyboard as his eyes stared without expression at a blank document. Twitching his fingers, begging them to type, he sat in a room alone. They hovered above that keyboard for several more minutes before he closed his laptop. He just didn’t know what the point was anymore.

Life had laid multiple paths in front of him. He didn’t know which direction to go. His mind battled as he fought with himself. The hounds of the guns fired back at each other. Their rebukes and rebuttals were perfect, as well as completely logical. It was simple in a way. He wanted to be a writer! Wanted to paint the world with the word and express emotion through poetry. He wanted to touch the soul and move the masses. Yet he didn’t feel good enough. Whenever he read his work it was like reading a child’s paper for school. Full of misspellings and grammatical errors. A part of him knew that if he kept working at it then he’d learn eventually, but he didn’t have the time.

Money was the only thing people thought about. It moved the world and changed the course of history. It influenced politicians and artists, doctors and garbagemen, soldiers, and the religious. Without this imagined meaning for life, they’d all have no reason to continue forward. He too needed this thing they called money. For it was the definition of survival. If you had money, you survived.

So there was his debacle. The age-old debate between pursuing passion or money. He could be poor forever, waking up each day struggling to keep the electricity on. But at least he had his passion, his reason to rise each morning. Or, he could chase money. Become rich and powerful without a struggle in the world. Let go of his dream and become something different. Something that simply wasn’t him. For he was a writer. That did not make the choice easier. It, instead, made it harder. That battle between selling his heart or his soul. Which held more value to him? He did not know.

His fingers lingered above that keyboard. Debating whether it was worth it anymore. Then suddenly, without warning, reality broke away. Falling around him into a white void that consumed his consciousness. Tipping back in his chair, he too fell into that nothingness. Until he landed butt down before two doors.

The doors need no further explanation. Besides that, they were cracked and revealed small glimpses of the futures held before him. The right way was for the writer, and the left was for the rich man. Around them was nothing but a cool and bone-chilling emptiness. He imagined if he walked forth it would take him forever and ever to reach the end. He glanced between the doors. Debating and questioning which of these he should observe first. He decided it would be best to see life with no passion. One of wealth and void of creativity. Stepping to the left, he fell into a beautiful house.

Marble walls, luxurious furniture, an infinity pool, a mini golf course, and more. The house was three stories tall and had an oversized garage with every car he could have ever dreamed of owning. They sat perfectly polished yet undriven. Outside in the gardens was a stunning woman. Yet, everything about this place wasn’t real. She wore a fake smile, with fake teeth, a fake skinny waist, fake hair, and worst of all fake care. There were no children in the empty house. Just two people who pretended they loved each other. For this woman was here for the wealth and not the love. Her love was outside of this home. That other man was a happy well-to-do individual who had pursued his passion. That was more loveable to her than all of the money in the world.

Inside the house was a good-looking man he could only assume to be his future self. This man wore an expensive suit, had perfect hair, and looked about with a constant scowl. For he was alone and unhappy. The money he’d accrued had purchased him almost everything he wanted. The big house, the cars, and even a beautiful wife. It did not buy him satisfaction. Nor did it get him the love he so desperately desired. Each day this man woke up with only one objective in mind, and that was to make more money.

He stepped back through the doorway. Unable to believe that this was a possible future. He believed himself a loving man. Someone full of passion and creativity. Not a drowned businessman with nothing to look forward to. So, in quick desperation, he stepped through the next door.

There was a chill in the air as he looked about. He saw a mid-grade apartment with an aging man. This man sat at a computer and typed away. His beard was thick, and his gut had grown heavy. At first, his face was focused with passion before a whooping cheer resounded out. Many sets of feet set off to get closer, and through the doorway came a family. A woman so beautiful it brought a tear to his eye. As everything was real about her. Her eyes were anxious for the good news, and her smile was proud at the sight of the man she loved. Two small heads poked their way through, each of them happy to see their dad. He looked at them richly, but not with money, instead with that passion and love for his life.

“I did it!” He shouted with glee. “Another novel in the bag!”

Cheers resounded from all of them. The woman and the children rushed in and hugged the aging man. Proud of him for accomplishing a dream and not a make-believe sense of worth.

Snapping back to reality and looking back at his blank screen. The man’s fingers finally knew what to do. And they began typing once more.