What is beauty? Is it the graceful delicateness of a flower as it blooms for the first time, its silky petals reached upwards to caress the sun’s gentle rays? Is it the crash and fall of the oceans fury, pounding mercilessly upon the rocks in a never ending struggle of land versus sea? Is it the juice of a wild strawberry soaking into your tongue as you roll down a grassy hill, the green blades breaking and staining your clothes even as you laugh in joy, your smile chasing the dark of the night away for just a few moments longer? Is it the swirl of colors dancing in a small puddle before a child, his hair pressed to his head by the recent rain that he’d played in even though his mother warned against it, splashed it apart with yellow booted feet?
Is it the sweep and flow of velvety cloth fastened tightly around a fragile chest as it is crushed beneath the force of too tight laces? Is it the piles upon piles upon piles of money thrown away in the haste to be perfect, to cover up what makes us unique beneath piles upon piles of plastic? Is it the film of fake covering a face as a smile as staged as Broadway cracks the hard plaster of foundation? Is it the pain drowning a fractured soul in a frenzy of touch?
Is it the crisp whiff of wind as it strokes your cheek with the salty sting of the sea? Is it the golden sun sinking beneath the purple and pink covers of the night? Is it the arch of a rainbow stroking the heavens with its whispered promises of magic, mystery and wonder?
Is it the harsh dig of furious voices, cutting down what is different, what is unique, what is real? Is it the fear pressing down upon the weak glow of happiness in a person’s body, a body that longs for those who are forbidden? Is it the coils upon coils of muscle, incasing a weak willed being in the bright lights of a fight?
Is it the squeal of joy from a child as it splashes its way through a heap of leaves taller than she is, even as she grows to the towering heights of a queen settling into her leafy throne? Is it the hardened core of a soldier returning to his family, being wrapped around tenfold by the tender embrace of those who he loves, of those who he’d die for?
Is it the brain of a jock, hiding behind three layers: a helmet, flesh, and peers? Is it the glow of light from that quiet girl hiding in a corner under a sheet of black despair and fear?
Is it the bite of snow as it nips at your ankles from between the cracks in your boots as you trample after the last drifting flakes of cold?
Is it the clothing tightly woven into a teenager’s very self-image, the labels on the fabric engraved into their minds?
Is it the fresh scent of a rose, a rose that has its bloom, has its thorns, and that has its time, a time that will pass just like all the good things in life?
Is it the industrial odor of a rose, a rose that is merely metal painted to resemble what is real and unique, a rose cranked out of a conveyor belt, only one of many?
What is beauty?
Have you answered?
Well, you are wrong. No one can answer.
For some, beauty may be make-up and plastic and shadows. For some it may be waiting for them in the radiance of nature at its finest. For some, for those worried only by their looks, or money, or some such thing, it does not exist. But now, you need to think…
What is your beauty?