Artwritus is a terrible thing, a chronic pain that hunches our shoulders, over the very keys to heal it.
We consult dictionary's with blind stabs, at any anonymous word hoping for a spark of heat, to relieve the frozen muscles in our hands.
But perhaps it is God's way of humbling us, a period of time to look at the world without the rainbow tinted glasses we were granted.
To see life much like the masses around us, starving for a dream, and to know the lack of expressing our pain and joy with ease.
Then we truly begin to appreciate the gift, until what we write next holds a brilliance that shines like the pure gold leaf on the edges of a fine book's pages.
One might try the balm of a breezy summer day, lie in a meadow and study the underworld, all those tiny creatures scurrying for survival, then pen a tale of a slug or plant-hopper.
Or simply seek to heal others in a visit to a V.A. hospital, or a nursing home, stare into the eyes of true chronic pain.
Bring old paperbacks and toiletries, to add a bit of poetry to their world, and then chronicle one of their stories.
Usually life brings us a cause that moves us to reach and touch the multitudes, tragedy in our own lives, or great happiness, but we are like books, and even the best novels, have pages that can bore to tears.
Artwritus is temporary, there is no Urgi-care to treat it, no E.R. to patch our gaping thoughts, but we do heal, and write art again.
This then is my band-aid to you, some ancient advice wrought by the thought of your pain, I hope in some small way it helps, for I have known Artwritus, it is malady I too have fought to shake,