Beauty is a subjective word, you can find it anywhere and in anyone if you look hard enough. People find it in the flowers that bloom across the meadows, in the rain droplets that race down the window, the breeze of the wind as you tread alongside the shoreline whilst waves brush against you softly. Or maybe you find beauty in the sketched-out lines in your mother’s skin as she threads her fingers through your hair, and mutters small words of affirmation, promising to always love you. Or possibly even in the ants that crawl alongside the scorching pavement on a blistering summer day, carrying specks of crumbs on their backs, bringing them back home to their colony; their family.
But where do I find beauty? People claim that everyone is beautiful; I agree. Whether it be the strangers on the sidewalk, as I twist my head back just to see their radiating skin or silky hair, just to have a glimpse of it for even a split second. Or maybe even the mere aura they possess as they stride down the streets, that’s beautiful to me. Or is it my friends as they laugh stupidly at a witticism that only we could understand, as they lift their hand to cover their dopey grin in fears of being ridiculed for being too loud, and obnoxious. That’s beauty, the pure simplicity of life itself. The actions of those around us, make our hearts lurch as we soak in every single detail, even though they may not realize it themselves.
“I’m not beautiful.” A commonly said phrase, a phrase I hear too often. A phrase that leaks from their mind, self-loathing and insecure. Doubtful. Something I could never wrap my head around fully, something I could never fathom even thinking about regarding another being. Someone so great, so happy, so beautiful. And yet they think the opposite; a thought that follows you around even after adolescence, even when you’re curled up on the couch watching reruns of your favorite show that was canceled several years ago as the same thought curves around your mind, taking up every single coherent thought. I’m not beautiful.
How? How can you look at yourself in the mirror and think that, how can you reflect on your actions, and choices in your life and ever consider that being something of the truth? How can you sit there and not realize that all of the people around you are comparing you to things considered perfection; the petals of a flowering blooming, the clouds slowly covering the sky, the blaring sun as it highlights your every feature, your smile, your hair, your everything. Or the way you seem to find the humor in everything, your intelligence, the way you think, the way you carry yourself, the way you care about others, the way you put yourself before others and still manage to think “Everyone is beautiful, but I.”
We all argue that everyone is beautiful, but ourselves. Why? Why do we do that? It could be because of how we view things of the present and past. Such as when we were five years old, gripping the dandelion crayon in our hand, an innocent tune escaping our lips, as we swung our feet beneath the desk innocently as we looked down at our artwork, something now we would consider hilarious and poorly created, but to us at the time we considered it a masterpiece, something so prideful. Something so beautiful. As we age, everything in the past seems horrid, disgusting, and ugly. But then right there, we considered it beautiful, perfect. It’s funny how our brain and perspective work, but yet saddening. The guilt I feel creeps up in me as I listen to my friends plead about how they aren’t beautiful enough to get a guy to reciprocate their own infatuation. I don’t understand, how could they not see themselves as that, and why wouldn’t that same guy think the same as I do? I never could understand, I never could understand how someone I cherish so deeply and find perfect, could ever think that way. Do they need to realize that everything they do is beautiful, everything about them? Even when they’re struggling? The way that the tears form in the corners of their eyes as they begin to reveal every emotion they are feeling; how can something so sad, be beautiful? Tears slip past their eyes, latching onto skin as redness forms around in different spots of their face, how are they still so beautiful even when crestfallen? How do they, themselves, not realize that?
And how as a friend, a loved one, have I failed to show them that as well? To show them how I view them every day, to showcase that every waking hour around them I admire everything they do. Whether it be tucking the loose strands falling in front of their face behind their ear, the way their nose crinkles when something interesting occurs, or the edges of their smile lift when something humorous happens. And how they bring a smile to my own face, even when I’m in my darkest of times. The number of times I just want to shout from the rooftops of how beautiful they are, how they remind me of a sunset alongside the horizon, a beautiful ballroom, a sheet of snow covering the ground but yet so gorgeous, how they are the definition of beauty.
As I stand there, anywhere, and look around me. I can find beauty in anything. The flowers that bloom across the meadows, in the rain droplets that race down the window, the breeze of the wind as you tread alongside the shoreline whilst waves brush against you softly. Or once again in the smile lines of your own mother. The ants race across the sidewalk, rushing back to their own place of comfort, the beauty of life. Beauty is a subjective word, but yet I think everything is beautiful in itself.