Women are books. They carry vast knowledge about life, love and everything in between those. They have within them this secret in nurturing just about anything. They have ways in comforting even the soul.

They are books: magnificent in their cut and illustrations as they are elegant in their content and form. A woman though endowed with all these will never be understood by all. Mostly because she is written in a language that they don’t speak.

There will be some who will understand parts of her because they are similar in a way, some who will emulate and even imitate the best parts of her, some who will highlight a sentence or two, add-in their own version of her originality and then there are those who will rip pages from her and take with them. All of these will define her, eventually.

And then someone will come, they will pick her from the pile, dust-off her dirtied cover, open her and understand what is written even if they don’t speak the same. They will leaf through the pages of her wisdom and indulge in the beauty of her intelligence. They will caress her and memorize line from her stories.

Women are books. They hold a world inside them. Don’t read them if you aren’t adventurous. Don’t read them if you are afraid to be enlightened. Don’t read them carelessly and aimlessly. They are books that can be a burden. So unless you don’t mind the weight of responsibility, I suggest you put it down and let someone else more deserving to carry them.



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