My Memory.
A small, warm cottage with cozy, gleaming lights sits snugly, surrounded by a snowy landscape and a quiet watch of evergreen trees.
Inside, a dozen small candles burn away silently while an assortment of freshly baked cakes are taken from the oven and set to cool, their mouthwatering fragrance wafting like a lazy stream, meandering through every doorway and open window. The beds are a sea of blankets of all kinds: fuzzy, silky, cotton, or patchwork, and ornamented with mismatched pillows. The atmosphere within the cottage is like a glistening gold, juxtaposing with the inky sky outside, a deep soulless blue of tranquility.
This was my home, the place which I still remember between a jumble of thoughts in my mind. It was a lonely place, but I was never alone. There, we would gather in a semi circle around the crackling fire, steaming mugs of milky hot chocolate set upon the coffee table, each with its own imperfect mountain of whipped cream and marshmallows.
But time moved on without asking, and so did everything else.
Even now, standing inside the office block, I remember the taste of the chocolate as if it had been only yesterday. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t replicate it. My friends couldn’t replicate it. No kind of store bought chocolate mix could replicate it.
I continue to long for something which can never be possessed again, afraid that it might get lost in my head beneath the million overflowing worries revolving around society.
Days seemed golden; warm, rich, and beautiful. They held a value which could never be quantified. My mind flows with endless photographic memories which are lined up in a neat arrangement.
But whenever I take a walk to my home, I find only a row of apartments, loud and unfamiliar, surrounded by grassy landscape.
