Beauty.

Silky, unscathed, caring, pleasant to the eye, perhaps an acceptable standard for woman’s beauty.

I wish I could say the same for life and fulfillment. To me at least.

Virtue, I guess that’s beauty.

Respect is definitely wonderful. But I respect a muddy soldier, battered and bruised, pierced with a bullet or two, surely that’s the picture of a beautiful warrior. That’s definitely what I think the king would like to see.

And what of reputation? Upon my own reflection, though mostly clean to the naked eye, does not feel beautiful when I study it.

For example, I can do a lot of things behind the silky curtains, but the great stain that my heart so eagerly maintains, the dream to find myself within the group and still so selfishly stand out, I doubt that’s beauty.

Beauty need no standard. Beauty, like human and God, and stone, and tree, need not be defined, but should merely be.

And merely, not as passive or in disrespect, and definitely not trying to sound stoic, but merely as pure, but also not pure as in whitewash purity, but pure in such a way that I have failed to find the correct word to describe it, tried to describe the words to describe it and then just had to settle on hoping that the reader will understand some kind of pure beauty that can both describe war and order, and little that becomes final, lost that is found, found that never left, and perfect as it is.

That’s the beauty I wanted to talk about. Need not be pleasant as much as true, but still so satisfactory that it could yet still be enjoyed despite a failure to understand it elementarily.