The human race has evolved enough to turn a blind eye to its mysteriously transmuting dispositions. Even this old deserted mansion with all its beauty and grandeur is nothing more than the supreme manifestation of the changing palates of our times. It is a living specimen of the curious shift in choice criteria of the human civilization in its prime.
 |
| An old deserted Victorian mansion |
Courtesy: victorianrestoration.blogspot.com ( image for representational purpose only)
Myriad voyagers have passed this way, but none has taken pains to halt and throw a glance at the unheralded captivating prowess of this cynosure bungalow. Though much archaic in its buildup, it is replete with quaint orbs of rexine elegance and uber-cool shapes of varying sizes. Some are hefty, while others are miniscule replication of the bigger ones creating a sense of talismanic utopia. The imposing motifs painted consummatedly all around the panoply of rotund spheres add more gist to the already captivating beauty of lissome vegetation encapsulating the main entrance inviting you to take a break from your mundane cares and cruise a while in its rustic glory.
A milieu awash with kaleidoscopic pallete of sprawling pasture is a scene to behold and relish. Hitherto concealed from the public view facing an extended spell of ignorance, the verdant meadows are well equipped to present the spectator with a heady spate of pastoral bliss. Reverberating with exciting bliss of copious serenity, this spot was by no means destined for inattention and negligence. Why then, this astounding creation of Mother Nature is unable to churn out a stopover from the troupers of contemporary cohort? Why is this enticing artifact so deserted?
The lucid inability of modern buffs to fathom its pricy worth pushes me into questioning the uncanny fad of this millennium. Being locked inside, sequestered into an apartment room confined to monotonous schedules caring to heed nothing but our daily chucks - has become the cult of our generation. We, today, are bound by fluffy mirages of illusionary gusto propelled by an urge to feel and perceive only as much as mandatory to our survival. We have speciously crafted our senses to dupe our own conscience.
Our persistent attempt to fit everything into a prefixed domain of space and time has immensely weakened our ability to think and reason, thereby, spoiling our palates. We are alive, but for the namesake. Memories - We crave to acquire and cherish - are nowhere to be found. We hanker after the fruitless ambitions of paltry attainments, only to realize in the end that we have mustered nothing more than a few fragile articles of ornamentation to be positioned safely on the mantelshelf. We have mesmerized the art of meandering carelessly in the cozy citadel of nature.
