We Are Our Passions – A Poem

“How’s your writing going?”

I told him

that I was

half way through

my current novel,

that I had

written a bunch

of poems and

short stories. He

nodded, looking serious.

“I don’t see how you can write so much. You’re always going out.”

He was a

person that lived

in my building,

but he was

also a photographer.

I shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well, I have to go to work. It pays the bills.”

He looked smug

for a second

before he said:

“So you’re not a writer.”

“I’m sorry?”

I was confused.

“What do you mean?”

His look of

smugness intensified and

he actually laughed.

“Well, anyone that doesn’t support themselves with their writing is not a writer. It’s merely a hobby.”

I was stunned

at his rudeness.

“Do you support yourself with your photography?”

If possible, he

looked even more

smug. His smile

was like a

streak of oil

across his face.

“I do actually.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

His smile faltered

a little bit.

“I do well enough.”

He said, but

there was a

bluster to his

statement. I looked

him right in

the eye, not

backing down from

his smug stare.

“Let me make something perfectly clear. Whether or not I support myself with my writing doesn’t make me any less of a writer. The same goes for all artists, musicians and even photographers.”

“Yes, but-“

I cut him

off. I didn’t

want to hear

anything else he

had to say.

“Writing is what I’m most passionate about. It’s how I live, how I breathe, how I survive. That is why I’m a writer, though and through. And you know what? It’s only a matter of time before I am doing what I love for a living.”

I watched him

deflate a little

bit, a stooping

of the shoulders.

I walked away

from him and

went back into

my apartment to

do what I

love most and

with every word

I put down

on paper, I

found more of

myself waiting there

to bleed through

the page.