If you could live anywhere, on this big blue planet, where would it be? Would it 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 middle of the forest with nature where everything prospers and thrives with greens and fragrant flowers bent by the weight of fat bumble bees?
My dream 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 places they needed in the world. Making themselves known with their power and calm force.
It's a place where flowers grew wild and are not limited to the pots. They climb and twirl on the window sill. Can't be stopped. They don't care for the pattern they grew in. They want you to appreciate them for the art they create in their movement. They don't stop when hacked but grow faster from that experience.
The greens do not serenade to the will of men. They make the trail known with their presence. They grow all around. Up, down, side and upside-down. You can see 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 strong bricks. They don't paint over. The dense walls are acknowledged. There's nothing soft about these walls, but they guarantee security. It's not dull, 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 bookmarked 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 mummer 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 frames had stories before you were there. They lived a life before your existence. They had their turmoil and late-night dances.
The place where my heart is was someone else's before me. And will be someone else's after. Another person had their afternoon tea on the same balcony where I have my bird now.
But it's 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, Though 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 my 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.
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