I have long since had a habit of looking for diamonds in the rough, scratching them out from the murky confines of the mud, pebbles, and grime that sticks to the surface, dimming their sheen. I am accustomed to polishing these seemingly ordinary stones to see their light, fueled by the belief that everything that glitters has no real value.

If I can make a stone shine despite years' worth of dirt and mold concealing it, then it becomes a precious gem that I hold close to my heart. Like a nightingale that sings forever, my heart would be its cage, where each artery would sing its praises.

Thus, it was no wonder that I disregarded all the bright illusions life bestowed upon me, searching instead for these diamonds hiding in plain sight.

Despite the privilege of seeing the stars twinkle above, I searched for pearls amid the corals, diving as deep as I could go until my eyes met only darkness in the heart of the ocean. How can you determine the true worth of something when an external light shines upon it?

Only when darkness engulfs you, and still you spot a flicker of light—weakly beating like the tune of your heart—can you ascertain that you have reached your deepest desire. That faint flicker is nothing short of a diamond that you can carve out of the rough and keep to yourself for eternity.

When I saw you, the light emanating from you almost blinded me. It felt like a mistake—nature's mockery of my self-settled beliefs—to send something so bright that needed no polishing.

You shouldn't have been on the ground stuck with all the dull stones I collected for a living. Your shine made it seem as if you were a star plucked from the fabric of heaven, so misplaced on the mundane terrains of our materialistic world.

I couldn't believe that you had always been here. Always in reach. Shining so bright for me to see and ignore. That absurdity of finding something of genuine value without any effort on my part made me think you were a pretty deception—a mirage that would evaporate the second I reached out to it.

I underestimated you for your brightness, thinking it was merely superficial. But time proved me wrong, and yet here we are at the threshold where I realize my mistake.

Now all I want is to devour everything about you, to hold your essence captive within my soul, to disentangle you like the reeds coming together to form those ancient papyrus scrolls and put you back together in a puzzle that only I could solve... All I want is to tune my heart to the flicker of your light, eagerly drinking everything there is to know about you.

I see now why the moth chases the flame with such agony. An admiration so deadly that it takes its life in the end.

But is it really the end or the beginning of a journey enlightening the soul to portals far beyond reach before that encounter?

Isn't true love to endure and to sacrifice oneself in the dilemma?

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My greed knows no bounds. I drink words and bleed on paper; for what other use would I put my soul to? Quenching my thirst from several wells-tasting each drop of your spirit through stainless goblets-the more I drink, the more addicted I become.

My dreams slip past my subconscious, like coins slipping from a beggar's trembling hands, yet you are there in my memory, vividly painted in all your somber colors.

If I were to give you a color, I would only think of gray.

Gray that is neither pure nor dark. A balance between two paths, a thin line differentiating two opposing worlds.

Gray like the streaks in your hair and the rings around your pupils. Gray, like those wrinkles that dent your skin, narrating a tale of a life well-lived. Gray, like the sky when it's neither tainted by daylight nor the inky discharge of night-the calm before the storm, the clouds with silver linings drifting past.

A mix of all colors diluted with the streams of hardships—brought to life by nature's paintbrush dipped in the solvent of tears.

How can a painting so somber be so full of life? No bright colors stand out on your canvas, yet once your image comes into peripheral vision, it's impossible to tear the eyes away. The brilliance of each shade of gray blending together creates a mesmerizing vision.

I know now why Icarus flew too close to the sun. Perhaps, like me, he believed that the sun's incandescence was nothing but a hoax. Perhaps he wished to see for himself if he would get burned by the light that gave life on earth. And before he knew it, the wax from his wings melted, just like the words bleeding from the tip of my fingers.

He fell to his death, drowning in the sea until only the foam narrated the tragedy. But like him, the foam and seaspray were temporary mourners, dissipating in the mists of time.

The only being who wasn't moved by such a tragic death was the sun. It continued to shine as bright as possible, probably even brighter, because such a young soul gave up his life for it.

Such is the passion that fuels the artist to create and the muse to bask in the attention until the artist runs dry of everything he can shower upon his love.

But isn't it strange that you are my muse, yet you are unaware of the pains I endure for you? I die a little every day to spin this yarn of longing, yet you barely seem to notice.

Will my art ever reach your eyes? Will it touch your heart and provoke admiration?

If, by chance, you find this essay, will you stop to read and spare a word of praise?

I hope you will. Oh, how I dearly wish so... It's now my lifelong desire that you find my writings and let them touch your soul. Let my words spread their fingertips over your heart, plucking at each heartstring like a guitarist drawing out notes from his instrument.

From collecting diamonds in the rough, I've become a spinster of words written about you. I weave a shawl of praises each morning and unravel the threads by night, the next day starting again, intending to create something more beautiful.

Something striking enough to match your brilliance even though I know you will never see it in this lifetime. I know it is nearly impossible. But hope is an illusion that I willingly accept.

I used to polish stones, and now I sieve crystals from the sand, hoping they would one day be transparent enough like a prism, capturing your brilliance and breaking it down from your intense gray to an iridescent array.

I'll take all I can, devouring the countless fragments of your existence. I'll translate them through these words until they become a part of me.

Like those reeds woven together in papyrus scrolls—the green blades of a thousand different glens entwined to form a tangible source for writing—I will weave these pages and fill them with my words until the reeds turn to coal.

I'll devour it all until there's nothing left. Because such is the greed of the moth that flutters close to the flame.

It drinks in the light till its last breath.

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