“There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.”
― Edgar Allan Poe

Beauty is an elusive concept. So very subjective and relative. So incredibly hard to define. But there may be one common feature to everything that has ever been considered beautiful. Beauty is not perfect.
Beauty does not glitter, shine and shimmer. It is not flamboyant, big and bold. Beauty does not brag. It hides in the smallest things – in the dew drops on a rose petal, in the way the sun shines on the lake waves, in the sound of laughter. Beauty can be found in a torn down building covered with ivy, in confused children’s games, and the most asymmetrical of art. Beautiful are the tears cried for somebody else’s pain, the sad songs, and the goodbyes of loved ones. Ice and fire are beautiful, even though they both take lives. And the night has beauty, even though it is black and cold and quiet. Beautiful are also the people who are flawed, but have big hearts, and make their way through their own mistakes and laugh while they do so. There is even beauty in death – in its stillness and the promise of another birth.
Nothing that is true is ever ugly. Everything that beats with life has beauty inside. But life is not eternal. It grows, expands, and then dies – and beauty dies with it.  Maybe that is the big imperfection of beauty, the flaw that makes all beauty beautiful – temporariness. Beauty is admired because it can never be caught, never truly possessed. One day, it will all slip away, disappear, transform; and we will have to start looking for it someplace else.