pushed.
pulled.
mashed.
marked.
kneaded.
twisted.
again.

i ache. quite literally ache, from the inside out.
i ache with weariness. and anticipation. the latter i'll embrace, the former... not so much.
my mind is racing, my heart is tense.
can't feel my toes.

inside out--i don't know what anything is or was or will be..everything is significant, and in the mean time, nothing matters.
words.
always there to cry out, to comfort, to whisper a new song. the moment they step onto the air, or land on this page, they are snatched by the past. ha, the past ... always taking things (but only those things belonging to it).

it seems i stand empty handed. makes it easier to climb, tho--

i'll climb into the Treehouse. about this Treehouse: built long ago, with the help of others... from the past, from the future. They likely didn't even know They'd helped. a strong treehouse, it is, too. there's one hatch-style door on the bottom, and rather large windows. a small hole in the eastern wall serves well to peer at the world in secret. the modest crack in the wood of the roof has been there since it was built. i've grown accustomed to its imperfection.

and this old Treehouse..it's only to be found by those who already know where it is.

the Ladder, old and wooden, reaches the Roof. whenever i cross beneath it, i hear his voice echo 'guess we know who's not superstitious.' a lantern was set in the far left corner from the entryway, just in case the sun refuse to shine--but someone forgot the oil. on occasion, Monkeys will join us as a nice addition to our Treehouse ensemble. the room is cozy, yet always seems to allow for one more guest. ..in the middle of the room is a kind of makeshift table, which is certainly sufficient. it sits low to the ground, we don't use chairs. a bowl of peanut m & m's sits in the middle of our table for refreshment--and every m in that bowl is yellow. even the blue ones. other refreshments? of course..what would you like? ginger snaps? pastel tres leche? nankatai? gelato? cobbler? you pick..then choose your weapon:

knife.
spife.
spoon.
spork.
fork.
anything you want.

ah ... not hungry? not a problem. perhaps what you want is music. which is good, because there is always music here. music and a box for your thoughts. an old rusted box, lacking a lock. of course in the Treehouse, you've no reason to fret. no one will take your thoughts from you, they have their own and are content. share what you will, hide away what you won't.

still not what you want? perhaps you want to laugh. cry. write. paint. or breathe. fine. do it..

this is OUR Treehouse.

this is our beautiful oblivion. We climb to escape--to our safehouse.

i'll climb into the Treehouse, through the window--door locked all the while--to sit quietly (quietly, not silently, you'll notice) under the weight of a silver glimpse of moonlight, shining thru that crack in the roof. i'll breathe the sky, listen to the stars, and look at the world from my window. a light raincloud gently caresses the moon--it wants to shine ..light fights beyond the cloud. and over a hill, i feel the sunrise ...i feel it coming.

outside the rain fell dark and slow.

yesterday, i sat at the edge--where grass clutches gravel. i sat watching the sky, and reading a book to stay awake. lightning and thunder had their battles beyond the clouds. birds sang their duels. the world was alive--i could hear the song, feel the thunder, smell the rain. i'd read about two-thirds of page seventy-eight when a black cat jumped from behind a bush..racing itself to the back yard. a black cat from no where ...good thing i'm not superstitious.

now. moving back to what was more comfortable, just hoping it still is.

just hold on for the ride.