Beauty.
Six letters. Two syllables. It's a word.
Yeah, I'm speaking the obvious, but am I wrong? Why is the word held up on such a high pedestal? Why is it so important?
I've never understood why everyone tries so hard to be the prettiest. The hottest. The most attractive.
Why does it matter?
I groaned as I dropped my pencil on my notebook and buried my face into my hands. My essay lay in front of me with not even half the page filled.
What does beauty mean to me? That was the writing prompt.
I didn't know what it meant to me. I had never thought about it. It was a word.
It didn't ever apply to me. I was average at best.
I looked down at the page and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee that I had been sipping on to keep me somewhat awake during my all-nighter.
What did beauty mean to me?
The word had always brought me back to a time where cartoon princesses and green and purple-skinned villains would be appearing on my staticky TV screen.
They were always "beautiful." Always perfect.
A new idea popped into my head.
Beauty is sometimes superficial with no real substance except for the pounds of products piled on the bodies of individuals that are pressured into being that way.
Society has a mean way of pushing people into positions that they shouldn't have to be in. It deceives and corrupts in ways that no one can understand.
No one but those who know their value. Know their beauty.
Know their beauty? Where did that come from?
Did I know my beauty?
I turned around in my desk chair and looked across the room at the mirror. Dark eyes stared back me along with the dull brown hair and full cheeks. Average at best.
"Society has a mean way of pushing people into positions that they shouldn't have to be in." a whisper rang out in the deadly silence of my bedroom.
I blinked and looked at my reflection once again.
This time I saw more.
I saw the bright sparkle in my green eyes that shined more as I gripped the pencil in between my fingers. I saw the red of my lips that hid the smile that only came out for a few people. I saw the soft waves of my hair that fell down my back.
I saw even past that.
I saw the brain that held knowledge and experiences unique to me. I saw the words of the stories and the poems I had written in my years. I saw the characters that I had created waving at me behind my eyelids as I blinked.
Most importantly, I saw the large heart that had much more room to grow.
In one of my favorite Disney movies, Hercules, Zeus told his son that, "A true hero isn't measured by the size of his strength but by the strength of his heart."
I think this might apply to beauty too, more or less.
Beauty isn't measured in pounds, how tight your clothing is, or even how many significant others you've had. It is measured by the size of your heart.
So what does beauty mean to me? That's what this essay was supposed to be about.
The answer to that question is I don't know. I'm still figuring it out. I might never know, and I think I'm okay with that.
I can tell you sappy quotes and attempt to apply them to this topic all day, but they aren't my definition of the word.
My definition of the word will always be individualized to me. And only me.
And I'm proud to say that I can't wait to find out what it is.
I sat my pencil down and looked over the words I had just written. My mouth tilted up into a smile as I turned around and glanced into the mirror.
I can't wait to find out.
