One thing I love more than anything in my existence is literature. Reading and Writing capital R and Capital W. I blush with shame when I say there’s nothing else that comes even close. No person, place, thing, or idea that compares to it. It’s the difference between a chunk of coal and a diamond.
And maybe that’s more than an apropos metaphor–it takes time and pressure and heat to make a diamond, and I’ve had nothing but time with the heat and pressure of dealing with non-literature things (life). Am I the diamond then? My humility and honesty will not allow me to answer.
But I am not as honest or humble to admit that my own personal literature is my diamond. Is it any wonder that I sit and stare at a screen for for hours a day trying to make sense of it?
Maybe my days are the diamonds.