When I painted the pastoral picture outside my window in pastel shades, I was told to draw diagrams of anatomy and physiology.
When I declared myself with the tunes of country Blues, I was asked to listen for the rhythm of the pulse.
When I strummed the guitar with deft fingers, I was forced to use the dexterity in my hands for careful incision.
So I resorted to the pen that screams stories of “could’ve been” and desires drowned before they were even voiced out, like a lizard’s tail chopped off again before it could grow an inch. As you can guess, that was taken away from me along with the rest.
So I dipped my inky hands into the pool of blood and became a medical practitioner. Yet, I could never understand the logic. If I’m expected to be successful in something I hardly care about, won’t my delightful leisure pursuits make for better professions ?
As I put on my stethoscope, I never cease to wonder how many such painters, musicians and writers were silenced and ladders taken away from these artists as they were climbing half way, leaving them hanging in mid air.
That’s exactly why every time I take my steth to someone’s chest, I tell them to listen keenly to what their hearts beat for.
WordPress Daily Prompt : Pursue