Remember when you were a kid, and you had a treehouse, clubhouse, or some kind of fort in the backyard that you could escape to when things seemed bad? Maybe you were feeling guilty because YOU were the one who broke Mom's vase, not your brother. Or your pet hamster died. Or you got into an argument with your best friend on the playgound over who got to steal Josh Murphy's hat today.
You'd grab your favorite book or your gameboy and a blanket. Maybe you already had a stash of Twinkies and soda in the treehouse waiting for an occasion such as this. A couple of the lawnchair cushions you swiped from the garage. A flashlight and some walkie talkies are stashed in a shoebox in the corner.
This was a safe place, where you could heal and lick your wounds. Where you could contemplate, write in your diary, and mope if you felt like it. Eat Twinkies if you wanted to. Be angry if you wanted to.
Today, I want a grown-up treehouse.
Photo from ffffound.