Who can refute the aesthetic of a treehouse? The deceptively primitive looking wooden floorboards nailed together in a parent-kid bonding moment. The childhood nostalgia that clutches the spirit as memories of those care free days spent up a tree playing the odd card game rush anew. A flimsy rope ladder that led up to that spot, which to child, represented freedom, a place high up in the air where no man could command them (excepting ol mum calling em in for dinner).
A rickety treehouse, ever in danger of falling apart, strewn with rusty nails, this was every young nippers castle. At that age when ones imagination isnt reined down by reality, this arboreal shack represents infinite possibilities. A secret hideout, your superhero H.Q., a dragon lair maybe. Every day after the seemingly endless toil of school you come running back to your sanctuary. Only the most privileged of your friends ever gain access to this fantastic realm that youre the supreme leader of. Doesnt it sicken you to sit in an apathetic metal cubicle as you reminisce?
Where, now, are those beautiful treehouses that our childhoods revolved around? We deny them to posterity owning to lack of space in this dreadfully overcrowded planet. Maybe there will be a revival someday, when adults connect to the child within, when sweet longing overpowers our need for brutal conventions. There still might exist an old romantic whose backyard still remains crowned with that endearing treehouse.