Well before saying what is beautiful for me, I would like to clarify the meaning of beauty. This word is inspired by ancient Greek culture that believes that everything worth admiring, its contribution leading to perfection, is beautiful. And that very definition is so Vogue that it leaves me perplexed to give the perfect sentiment towards this article. So I thought I'd write about those things that I generally thought were beautiful. Say no to plagiarism. Get a tailor-made essay on "Why Violent Video Games Shouldn't Be Banned"? Get an Original EssayI'll start with my first encounter with the word "beautiful." At my lower grade level, our lady showed us a photo of a tall, blonde, smiling girl as an example of beauty. From that day on it occurred to me that what seems beautiful to the eyes is beautiful. My opinion on the subject was strengthened when our art book showed us a scenery of mountains and lakes and asked us to paint a scenery similar to that beautiful painting. Then my horizon understood that not only people but also places can be beautiful. My father brought home our new white puppy one day, my mother called him beautiful. My dictionary has been enriched by the fact that animals can also be beautiful. Once, when I was 11, we went to a fair, my older sister brought some clothes and exclaimed look Ashly how beautiful it is!! Now to the lists of beautiful girls, landscapes, animals, a new dress has been added. And similarly the list has piled up with things like houses, earrings, flowers, cars, bicycles, jewelry and much more. Then I happened to develop a crush on someone I hated. It was a phase that I don't know how to describe without using the word "beautiful". I would sneak up on him just to give him a look. I stood in line in the mid-May heat just to see him wave to his friends. This was enough for me. A last look was beautiful, those fake arguments, those jokes regardless of the efforts that tired me. Even the tears I shed after learning of my father's death and that fake smile I learned and marveled at in front of my friends were beautiful to me. You know why, because they gave me strength, they helped me get up and savor someone's happiness. And that day I realized that anything that makes something a little stronger is beautiful. The days passed and I moved on. On my path I have encountered some other obstacles, I have fallen, I have been injured and some wounds are still far beyond the possibility of healing, yet I call them beautiful. Because until then I had begun to see the beauty in those wounds. They weren't just wounds, they were proof that I fought and survived. One of these days I found a wrinkled old lady from the slum giving her share of food to a beggar. When I asked her about it she just smiled and said he seemed to be hungrier. I don't know what it was, his smile, his wrinkles, his graying hair, my repressed tears or the expression on the beggar's face, which was more beautiful. And that day I was content with the fact that I am no one who can justify what is most beautiful, let alone the most beautiful. When I am at my father's house, I met this girl from a very remote place, she showed us her village photos. It looked nothing like the scenery of mountains, oceans, or rivers, yet he called it beautiful. And I am sure that, despite being condemned for pollution and all kinds of bustle and chaos of the population, every residence will claim that its is a beautiful city. I am no longer an elementary school student whose definition of beauty starts with a photo of a young girl.