Tree-home

The Tree-home

Why does everyone see the vines that intertwine, the secret to life only some discover, the truth and its true beauty, the truly lovely and the truly meaningful. And are the truths different truths? The bare naked truth, each one as strong as the one that came before it, manifested and incubated in the one who holds it, protects it, the one who lives for it. Yet sometimes it is painful. Sometimes it hurts worst of all - but the hurt remains a stain and a stain alone - the truth the ultimate outcome, and with it, the strength and the clarity. Or perhaps it can be found. Somewhere that those most different come together, inhabiting the same branches, the same burrows, the same trunk and the same leaves, nesting in each other's havens, growing in each other's skies, swapping cocoon for fetus and fetus for cocoon. The Tree-home. Majestic if you will, rustic mother nature, they clock to its limbs in the gray sky. They protect the baby, the truth, the old, the wise, the dead and the unborn. The birds. They flock from near and far, far and wide. They say snack on this, now have another. They feed. They feed you.

We we we are the bords of the Tree-home. We watch from on high though we come from directly below and above and beyond. We represent the parts and the pieces that make up the whole, the bones of the gigantic itself, the creatures that are such different in chape and in body, yet one and the same in heart and in mind, in spirit and in soul. We are linked by the branches, connected at the core by the trunk, yet blown by the wind and touched by the nature of the world - the touch of the human, the burn of the fire, and the truth of the heart. We are the unhatched ideas waiting to be released, and its protectors, ensuring its delivery to the rightful owner at the righteous time. We are the most different and the most the same. The minds eye of the viewer, the reader, the audience, we are there for those who understand and not for those whose eyes don't translate the truth in our position. Perched up on the branches, the branches of the Tree-home. We we we are the birds of the journey, the process in plains-eye view, the birth in private-eye view, the stain your fingers leave behind as you discover the truth and its truth beauty, the truly lovely, and the truly meaningul.