Pick up a book.
Look at it. But don’t open it.
It’ll have a blurb, a spine, a cover photo.
It’ll proclaim its name. Tell you who authored it.
Tell you who published it. Maybe even tell you what people think of it.
But do you know this book yet?
Do you look at it, fondly, and remember the time you spent lost within its pages?
Are there moments spent together preserved within its pages – a drop of tea here, a stray hair there?
A book may be plain to look at on a shelf.
It may be pretty. Look expensive. Look old and worn.
But books weren’t made to sit on a shelf.
Books aren’t made to be compared by their covers.
A books true power lies within those covers.
It’s beauty lies in the hours you spend, swept away by the wonder of the world within.
And there’s so much within those worlds.
Within the shell we call ‘just a book’.
And just like a book, our shells hold things far more wonderful than our exteriors reveal.
Just like a book, the hours spent, lost in conversation, in company, is where we find our beauty.
Inside is where our true beauty is.
We are human. We are different.
But we are so much more than that.