You were told a couple of times by Facebook photos and blog posts to date a girl who reads. A girl who indulges in every piece of literature she can get her hands on. A girl who forgets her coffee because she’s trapped in the world of dragons and deception in Westeros. A girl who has an unfinished book in her bag as she tries to make her way to the train station, hoping she doesn’t have to ride a flying car all the way to Hogwarts.
Asked to find and date a girl who reads because she knows the reality that men fall in love with the American dream like Jay Gatsby; that she knows the secret of the Count of the Monte Cristo and how faith and fate can work side by side to unravel one’s purpose in life; because she knows better not to let her raging hormones get the best of her unlike the unfortunate pair from the Capulets and Montagues.
In fact you have been told that it is even better to date a girl who writes. A girl that will find inspiration in the curve of your knees and the tip of your toes. A girl that will shower you with poems of admiration when you wake up baffled and confused by the demands of being. A girl that will write your children their own fairy tales, where the damsel saves the cavalier in distress.
Yes, I am a girl that reads and writes.
But more often than not, I do not look at you and see the tangle in your hair and the scars on your hand as proses waiting to be told. The protests when you’re upset by work do not sound at all like mysteries yet to unfold. Your eyes may not always appear like burning stars from the constellations above.
Yes, I write and I read but do not forget that I am also just a girl. Do not let all the grandeur of my passion veil my flaws and imperfection. See past the spectacle I hold and let other people see, dig deeper and search my core for the yet untreated uncertainties. Go beneath the splendour of words, reach for my soul and see where beauty lies well concealed.