What if people were like books, leaning against each other and other miscellaneous objects on a shelf somewhere? There would be those people with soft covers, easy enough to get inside, but with a barrier of politeness and social-normalcy. Then of course there’s those books so thick that they not only have a hard cover, but a layer of padding covering the hard cover to make it seem softer. There would be the stoic hard cover, black, minimal wording, simple, tough, unapologetic. There would be ones with no cover, maybe never had one, only bound with rings, or maybe a soft cover that over time ripped away, or worst of all: the thick hard-cover who had it’s protection viciously torn off, all of whom show their guts to the world unable to cover them up.

            There are millions of types of book covers, all with different textures, art, font, and all covering up a different set of pages, a different pile of meaning. I believe some people are poems: multiple poems, making up a person, not necessarily the same theme, but a collection nevertheless. Some people are full of stories, facts, definitions, order, or fantasies. I guess I know people are like books, and at the same time I wish people were books. I could open the cover and read all about them and hopefully the words would help me understand their story and their essence.