A traverse cobbled pathway slinked lazily up the lush grassy hill. A house perched on its peak, outlined by the setting sun.

On first look the essence of the house is unabashedly obvious: the windows. Windows line the walls boldly, large doubled-storeyed windows that give the house bare decency. At this time the house glowered like a candle, a romantic inviting warmth. It beckons to the onlooker passive and unhurried, an irresistable stance that piques his interest. The stroll up takes effort, yet none ever resented.

At the end of the pathway he sees an entry, shielded by unassuming neatly cut hedges. Burgeoning crimson roses file its stepped entrance; a little wooden swing gate that seem more whimsical than secure. It swings open easily, unlatched, much to his surprise. He enters.

Past the gate he sees an immediate porch, a beautiful porch set in rustic sienna tiles, an overhanging progressive brass windchime tinkling crisply in the wind. In its middle, an intricately carved door. It is ajar, as he would now come to expect.

Through the heavy rosewood door an interior preciously designed with Victorian furniture, Baroque artworks and antique candelabras awaits; a majestic lady with an air of extravagance that is almost ostentatious. Walking through the house, the heart stops beating and everything is held to a standstill. The grandeur is ethereal, a chef d'oeuvre that can never be fully measured. He quickly steps out the back door , giddy with enrapture.

A spacious patio fans out at the back facing the captivating sunset, a grand piano at the corner ready to bolster the ambience on special days. A marbled dance floor lay meekly, anticipating the eager feet. He looks out and is greeted by the magnificent view of the ocean, dancing blades of shimmer playfully waving out to him.

There he sits himself down on the grass.

The house on the hill.




A manisfestation of my thoughts and personality.