December Decanted

Up here in the treehouse the world feels heavy, trapped by the Sun;

Up here in the treehouse the smell of decaying leaves freshens one’s perspective anew.

Up here next to a tree decades old, standing on weathered timbers, one feels the millennia in one’s genes, contemplating technology that is brand-new yet as old as the stars;

Up here, one looks over one’s head and realises the true lack of meaning in words like “up” or “down.”

“Here” is up for debate, too, for that matter.

One is not even one.

Yet the photons bouncing from “sun” to “moon” to “eyeball” seem really enough.

What, then, is the love of one’s lifetime?

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