For Dr. Ursus - Either Or?

He pointed to your brilliant marks and killed the just emerging sparks of what, in other, better times could have produced some pleasant rhymes. That counsellor, you know it now with bovine brain, that of a cow was instrumental in the death of infantile poetic breath! I note, in this, your brief account that God himself gave, pound for pound what He Himself would call The Gift to you, though someone did get miffed, which I (of kindred spirit) see- a badly genuflected knee. I am, from what you say, convinced that he, the counsellor who minced his words pretending genuine kindness was facing, really, ego blindness. He sat, without a useful skill day in day out, without the thrill of talent, gifts or intellect, though compensated to detect what made those pimply students tick. With you, he tried to pull the wick out from your candle out of spite he could not stand another light to pass his desk and then succeed while he was stuck, a lowly weed inside his basement closet rooms. Some days he wished for giant brooms to sweep all promises to hell and find himself a bagatelle from which he'd leisurely create a work to change his sorry state. Surely, he reasoned, there must be for anyone a proper key to open simple doors and portals, God would have loved his little mortals or could it be that He was keen to have another Nazarene? He was not sure, nor could he judge the truth of it. He could not budge from his low station in a life that had bestowed on him a wife who nagged him morning noon and night with words like 'lazy', 'not-to-bright'. So, nothing more of this adviser! You Doc, have risen like the Kaiser and ought to, this is common sense, look at your own head through the lens, rose-coloured as it well may be. This will allow you to, like me turn syllables to wondrous words which rise, like happy little birds and roam through cirrus clouds and lands where children play while holding hands until they grow too soon to face the madness of the human race. I wonder, do you get my drift? Might there be value in the gift to put to paper from within a subtle taste of Lohengrin? Well I shall close now, lest the powers delet me as I write for hours. I wanted you to understand that man is shackled to the bland to sweat and blood and salty tears, to obligations in arrears, and that some clever writing will keep many folks from getting ill. So while our minds, with patience, weave new verses destined for our sleeve we have a remedy to use: Its smile will drive away the blues. Thus, Medicine and Poetry two are for you and both for me. Good Heavens, this must be the end and will you answer me, my friend? Note: This was in response to a colleague who found, much later in life, that the advice of his counsellor in school to choose Medicine rather than writing, had been wrong. He now does both.