A Nostalgic Shrine to Home

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Abstract

ilter of tragic reminiscence. Under the reflection of the pensive mysterious clouds, we retrace our steps past the ashes of the abandoned lanes once echoing with innocent laughter and naive euphoria, we relive those little magical constants which had become our home as shifting life made us a nomad, we relive those utopian memories whose enchanting nostalgia, in the end always becomes the greater objective of our stories, right here at home.Pondering at the path whose trail we so vehemently follow as a life long quest to discover the perfect conclusion to our tales, we often overlook its humble genesis, where it all began, where life as we knew it existed in the familiar cosy comfort of our modest roots. In the blind chase of our starry-eyed plots we often lose sight of the very

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setting where we learnt to dream, where copious spectacles of elemental ecstasy, unconditional love and vital tears enticed us in a naive phenomenal paradise of memories, tarnished by the ignorance of success, yet always nearby as a cheerful chuckle of a consoling inspiration when the weight of the world becomes a harrowing burden.So perhaps in dire times of desperation, when life becomes a conflict of inane struggles, you can always revert back to that untamed freedom of simpler times through the dusty cobblestone lanes surrounded by the fading bustle of lit up shops under the final resistance of the dwindling scarlet Sun as the last bend of the road rejuvenates that distant memory of the one loyal constant in this treacherous world, that familiar warmth of home.</article></body>

A Nostalgic Shrine to Home

The phrase ‘looking back at the past’ has always had a regretful tone of bitter sorrow. It has always had that cliche naive simplicity before maturing life got so violently distorted by reality. Yet every so often, we halt in the tedious pursuit of incarnating our passionate stories and gaze up at the relentless freedom of the infinite cerulean skies. As exhausted travellers of this ambiguous existence, we contemplate down the forgotten roads of life in a monochrome filter of tragic reminiscence. Under the reflection of the pensive mysterious clouds, we retrace our steps past the ashes of the abandoned lanes once echoing with innocent laughter and naive euphoria, we relive those little magical constants which had become our home as shifting life made us a nomad, we relive those utopian memories whose enchanting nostalgia, in the end always becomes the greater objective of our stories, right here at home.

Pondering at the path whose trail we so vehemently follow as a life long quest to discover the perfect conclusion to our tales, we often overlook its humble genesis, where it all began, where life as we knew it existed in the familiar cosy comfort of our modest roots. In the blind chase of our starry-eyed plots we often lose sight of the very setting where we learnt to dream, where copious spectacles of elemental ecstasy, unconditional love and vital tears enticed us in a naive phenomenal paradise of memories, tarnished by the ignorance of success, yet always nearby as a cheerful chuckle of a consoling inspiration when the weight of the world becomes a harrowing burden.

So perhaps in dire times of desperation, when life becomes a conflict of inane struggles, you can always revert back to that untamed freedom of simpler times through the dusty cobblestone lanes surrounded by the fading bustle of lit up shops under the final resistance of the dwindling scarlet Sun as the last bend of the road rejuvenates that distant memory of the one loyal constant in this treacherous world, that familiar warmth of home.