To me, beauty is something left undefined.
The stars on a windy night. The birds that perch and call out your name as you pass by. The ghosts that sit on that old rocking chair in the corner of this room. That's beauty.
The open door of a tilted shack, the windows questioning you as you walk through. A child's hand clutching wilted flowers. The cold floor of a black and white movie theater.
That's beauty.
The lonely sock sitting behind the drying machine. The coke bottle turned on its side and spun, while anxious eyes watch. The scratchy record playing your favorite lyrics. The phones silence on a lazy Sunday. That's beauty.
The single tear sliding down the side of a snowy mountain. A hand, another hand. The breath of a fan on beads of sweat. Standing for an eternity waiting for her. That's beauty.
But nothing can be left undefined. Everything has meaning, a place in the creases of the page that is society. Everything is an inside joke, or a metaphor, something forgotten, or told to forget. Beauty is as such. A flower breaking through a rock, a song sung by a chorus of thousands. Beauty is one thing that has no reason, no rules. Beauty is the ant that carries a leaf or a eagle skimming the surface of a wave. Beauty is everywhere. And beauty is no where.
