Reality

There use to be this tree house on a path I use to bike, as a teen. When I was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, until I left for college. I loved this path. It couldn't have been more than a mile long. It was deserted, next to a housing development but carved out a forest. On the other side, a restricted access reservoir, my friends and I, of course, peeked into once in a awhile. I use to ride that path on weekends and sometimes weekdays, thinking of nothing at all. There was a pond half way through the path we use to cool ourselves off in it in the summer.
That tree house fell over, fell after a wind storm. We never did have the guts to traverse those rickety wooden boards and man it's bow. It lay there a treasure untook. Some place wondered upon and guessed at. Our parents thoughts keeping us out, though they weren't there. "It'll break under your weight." "Better not go up, those are rusted nails and boards."
We longed for freedom from their dogma, searching for it, yearning for it, racing down long paths cut between a reservoir and a housing development for it. We foolishly believed that what confined our minds inside theirs were the four walls of that house that we bravely ventured out of one or two days a week down a dirt path with a too often visited pond a never entered tree house.