I can barely find my way around the other side. I imagine it atrophied like a stricken arm or leg...withered like a neglected house plant...lulled into complacency by boredom. Barren. Comatose. I wonder if there is any hope for it. Will it ever revive? Will it ever bring forth fruit?
It's that hard for me.
Then there are those who have dedicated their lives to their art, the same way I devoted mine to medicine--fully, wholly, and unequivocally. They are the ones who write the stories and poems we can't put down, compose the music we can't get out of our heads, or cover canvases with images we never forget.
Oh, all right. I admit it. I envy them. I ache for their talent. I wish I had it in me. And then, every so often, I come across something so heart-achingly beautiful, so extraordinary, so ethereal I simply surrender to it and enjoy it.
See what I mean? Someone actually created that? Blown away. Had to share it.
Okay. Back to work...