By- Kirti Bhandari
Knowledge freak, passionate explorer. I love conversations.

0 likes followers Views

Kirti Bhandari

Followers
Views
0 Likes

The Place I call Home: My Dream House


 

 

 If you could live anywhere, on this big blue planet, where would it be?


Would be near the beach where the sound of waves could be heard in between the conversations? or It would be in the city that never stops to catch a breath? Or in the midst of the forest with nature where everything prospers and thrives?

 

 My fantasy destination is away from all the habitation, it's me and the plants only. Some I grew with my own hand and some wild out of control talking all the place they need in the world. Making themselves know with their power and calm force. 

 


 It's a country where flowers grew wild and are not restricted to the pots. They climb and twirl on the window sill. Can't be arrested. They don't care for the pattern they grew in. They want you to appreciate them for the artwork they create in their evolution. They don't stop when hacked but grew more immovable from that experience.

 

 The greens do no serenader to the will of men, They make path prized with their presence. They grow all around. Up, down, side and upside-down. You can observe it from all the windows and the balconies, They consume every point of view and vision. They don't mean to overpower. Just be appreciated without hindrance.


 

 The place I wish to live in is built with big sturdy bricks. They don't paint over. The dense walls are acknowledged. There's nothing soft about them walls, but they ensure security. It's not dirty, it is mighty. The beauty of it is appreciated by the selected few. 

 

 The place is illuminated with an orange brightness of candles and lamps. Candles that scents like lavender, in every corner of the house. A fireplace keeps it warm. Warmth is what it requires more of.


 

 There are not many voices in the house, it's eerie during the night. The song of notes playing in a rhythm can be heard bouncing off the walls every once in a while. The melody from the tip of the pen running over the parchment creates music that's the most soothing sound in the house. Footsteps echo in the gallery. 


 

 The rooms are filled with books. Bound leather secured in the ancient methods that kept them alive for centuries and will protect them from the hardship of coming years. New additions are added to the collection. They make the palace divine, Leaves and flowers become bookmark so very often. The books preserve the leaves. 

 


 The house is full of statues, They feel alive. They move about. They talk among themselves, But that's just your imagination. They mummers in the silence, They whisper about you. In hushed tones, they spill your secret and create rumours. See your tears and fits of anger. The chipping on the bottom corner holds the evidence of it all. 

 


 The same can be said about the portraits in the hall. They've seen you dance around in the ball gowns. They are witnesses of the laughter that echoed the palace. Bouncing off each corner, blooming the flowers in the dreamy night. The people trapped in golden framed had stories before you were there. The lived a life before your existence. They had their turmoils and late-night dances. 

 

 The place where my heart is was someone else's before me. And will be someone else's after. Other person had their afternoon tea in the same balcony where I have my bird now. 

 

 But its mine for now. And I wish to have it with me for a long time. Cherish every moment in it. Leave my footprint and legacy, Thought it might not last long. 

 

 This is the place where I wish to live. This is where I seek comfort. Where I spill my secrets and bury my doubts. This is where I wanna be in every moment of existence. This is where I wish to take my last breath. This is where I hope to live after I become a myth


 

 This is Home.


HelpFeaturesMade with in INDPrivacyAbout
© 2020 Peppychunk.com