Confessions in the treehouse

Everything palls in the summer. Palsy figures , serene minds , rapture! Only the piecemeal crumble of thought will perish that feeling of relief ,oozing your body from every possible hole.And What is truth ,for a somnambulist it’s the dream for the. cynical.But we live our dream in the summer, up in the treehouse that we built ,where we are alone and we feel alive , lying down gazing into the deep oblivion.

 Our consolidated consciousness resides in a strange yet quite familiar room whose floor shifts when a shaft of light enters and all the cockroaches illuminate their passage through it, drawing lines under our feet ,till they become united like our thoughts : comprising a truth that no one ever utters.

In the afternoon the birds talk and we are buzz like bees searching for honey , but we have all the honey we will need. In the afternoon the butterflies are singing with us.In the afternoon there’s no sunlight, but we are iridescent, providing colours to aurora , painting the dawn with our fingers ,making it last as long as we are awake.In the afternoon the branches of trees become paths and we walked through them to the treehouse. The treehouse is the bubble we created when we blew our drinks through a straw, and now we live in it, we live in a bubble that flew in the sky the louder the music got, to the point you’d thought it was illicit.

As ephemeral as an afternoon , summer wont last, and the rain will soak the flour we lay and the ice will burn the flowers we planted , birds won’t talk ,and we won’t buzz ,and the dawn will draw its self with colours from this darkened place that We once illuminated.

Everything will become dull and dark , nobody will be here cause all of us will wander down there like lost souls, zombies ,wearing masks searching something we don’t even want ,wasting time , and Repeat. What’s the point ?We try not to think about it, but sometimes even we cant process that this earthly heaven in which we live in right now it’s not a dream (even though it feels

dreamy ). Something is always waking us up. we won’t let these thoughts spoil our reality.

We lay down holding hands, looking In each other eyes, and the room is full of smoke, dancing in the air like we danced the night we met. And no matter how much we can condense  it, it will always dance and no matter how hard we try to blew it away it will never leave the treehouse. People may say we are imaginary but all I know is That you always danced When I hugged you and you never left when i pushed you away. They say that its a lie, they say we live in a lie. We don’t believe anything they say.

We are in a state of seclusion , where our thoughts float in that sea of smoke and the tides are bring them all together ,dancing with it, until they’re liquidfied ,and in the afternoon ,they’re soaking us like rain does. And that rain is soft on our skin, that rain doesn’t soak the floor we stand, doesn’t scares the cockroaches away.

The tree house was our shelter , and the more we went there the less we needed to leave. We’ll live here for ever. Can you believe that I didn’t know what home was until I got up there? Because I knew in fact that behind these walls of darkness that I used to call home there was nothing for me.

 We climbed up there with ropes to get in, yet it was so much easier than walking home. In our house we weren’t ourselves.In our house things where different. That smell of chlorine and chemical Levanter felt like acid in our veins. Oh and what is it with all the smiley faces on the walls? The Italian couch had dead cockroaches underneath ! They hid them there. The walls so bright that burned our eyes. This isn’t a home it’s a fucking madhouse , only a lunatic can truly enjoy it, and we’re not mad.We knew Our food was poisoned with cyanide and no matter how bitter it tasted  we consumed it. We ate their food ,and sat in a cockroach cemetery , we watered their plastic plants but they didn’t grow , what did they expect?. There’s no music here, they silenced it like guns, like they knew they made a crime and now they try to hide it. There’s no one dancing but we see them clapping hands. what Are they cheering about?

All we see is people walking on their toes, people whispering and looking down to the ground, like they want to stay there. Some of them kneel , I guess they feel that way.

This wasn’t our dream.

By the time we were up there , all of us , higher than the rest, we were reborn. We curved our names in the walls so we won’t forget them when we’re sober. The smell of wood and cinnamon Clenched our rotten soul , and the pickup player was spinning like we did . Music so loud that Aretha and Elvis shaked their hands and we clapped our hands for them, we are not mad.When we sat down in a circle and we were circled by realisation, the awarness Of how little of this world we have and we will experience , that each one of us passers-by is connected in a unique way with each other, giving meaning to each other lives . All together we escaped the Self indulgence, we were free.

If only the summer wouldn’t end and with it our time up here. The tree house felt like our panacea. Everything united into an idyllic picturesque. We are up here together.

5 pm: we cried in our birth, REBORN

6 pm: we rubbed our eyes to see more,

7 pm : we filled our lungs to breath more.

8 pm: the floor has lift us higher.

9 pm: we reached the ceiling of our minds.

10 pm: we die.