What truly is beauty? Is it borne out of desire, or judgement, or appreciation or even rage? It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, in which case beauty is a concept, an idea, another mere social construct - which would hence mean there is no real answer to my question. Whether you prefer the rising or setting sun, or the brisk cold of a November afternoon or the warmth of a July evening, or the picturesque countryside or bustling streets of a city. Does one have to choose between these, or can all, so stark in their differences, be labeled as “beautiful”? How can beauty be a tangible concept if it is so subjective? How can anything truly be beautiful if beauty itself isn’t concrete and singular in its meaning?

I find myself pondering this query while sitting on a bench, in a park, on a day when the breeze is neither too cool nor too warm. I feel the pages of my journal solid against my pen and writing hand. The squeals of children, barking of dogs, chatter of friends and neighbors who find themselves enjoying the weather surrounding me as I write. The slight overcast above me casts a hazy sort of light, creating a softness so discernable that one might be inclined to reach out a hand to grasp at it, only to find that the surrounding air isn’t as tangible as the mind is tricked to believe. A day like today feels like a sigh that has been breathed after a person did not realize they were holding their breath - exasperatingly tired and yet warm and calming all in one instant. And while I am alone, I am not lonely, simply an observer; taking a trip into the lives of the people around me for just a moment, before moving onto the next. This, to me, is beautiful. I find myself most often observing as Emily Dicksonson did; enraged at the limitation society provides for us. To once in a while let go of that anger and simply enjoy one's time in the world feels more beautiful than anything.

I want to capture these moments as an impressionist painter would with a brush, or a photographer might with a lens; store it in the catalogs of my brain as an unimportant yet distinctly human blink of my eyes. A quiet memory, one that does not alter lives or perspectives, but is remembered all the same. Those sorts of memories are just as substantial as the ones at the forefront of our minds, filled with feelings and intensity and seriousness. A funny joke told by a friend, a hug from a mother, a passing compliment on the street, or a moment like this one, when you are sitting on a bench, in a park, on a day when the breeze is neither too cool nor too warm.

Those in-between moments, like descriptions of setting and passing actions in a book or silence in a film, reflect the inner workings of our minds and souls even if we aren’t aware of it. The way in which characters move and act are shaped by those passing lines we don’t read over twice, the ones that go un-underlined when annotating; whether the character orders coffee or tea, prefers winter or summer, if they like to walk or drive - these smaller details turn a character from words on a page into a human, same as you and I.

So, I ask again, what is beauty? It seems to me I will never truly get an answer to this question. Therefore, I will continue living in these in-between moments, perfectly content in classifying them as beautiful.

Sitting on a bench, in a park

This flash fiction piece won the gold key award of the Scholastic Young Writers and Artists contest in 2025. It is a philosophical piece on the boundaries of beauty and what it means to live in the present.