Beauty, what is that?
Beautiful, what does it mean?
Is it a law, a dream?
I find myself wondering the answer for these questions, without coming to a firm conclusion.
Beauty. It's so powerful, yet thought to be delicate. I feel caged, like a slave without freedom. Just because of a word. Just one word. Why?
Perfect. Ethereal. Gorgeous.
Where I live beauty means having blue, green eyes and light hair. Being tall, thin.
Why am I, having brown eyes and dark hair, not beautiful?
Why am I, being fat and short, not beautiful?
Even myself I can't deny the attraction of the word. How soft, how taunting it sounds, looks, smells,
feels like.
Like a world of madness, full of liars, of pain, of sorrow. Why do we have to suffer to be
beautiful? I want to be real, to be me. To be normal, to be fierce.
Why does the world tell me if I'm beautiful or not?
Why do I have to be miserable while magazines show me perfection?
Why should I be perfect?
Perfection is boring. Boredom means not interesting. I want to be interesting, I
want to be imperfect then!
I love my widely-spaced front teeth.
I love my brown eyes, my brown hair.
I love my big forehead.
My fatness.
I won't lie, I wish I was taller though.
Beauty is nothing and everything.
Beauty is happiness, sadness.
Beauty is life, memories.
Beauty is a tear, a smile.
Beauty is a storm, an ocean.
Beauty is music, silence.
Beauty is art.
Beauty is strange, unique
Beauty is blue, green, orange, brown, blakc, white, beige, pink, red, violet, gold, silver, amber.
Big, small, short, tall, thin, giant.
Rough, soft, sharp, tender, scratchy.
But the most important meaning of being beautiful, is being true to yourself.
Cristina.
"sick of beauty."
