Some object which, between two stiff things called covers, reveals itself upon opening to be papers bound tightly on one side by glue or string. Upon the pages are things that were once thoughts, now stamped black in such glyphs known as letters. An attempt to hold and make permanent the soul.*
How to think about it: Unbearable to some, due to its rough likeness to an enclosure.
*Though some may shudder at such a word, I have seen nothing to disprove its reality. The soul, according to some ways of thinking, is an ever-changing collection of qualities, like a soup into which varying ingredients are constantly being added. A soul a thousand years ago bears little resemblance to the same soul today. A sad or happy fact? Feelings too come and go.