Aren't the real ones the best ones? Pulling a tree indoors, into your house, they bring with them the chill of outside, the raw smell of open spaces, they look out of place, bark, hard bark, green needles used to wind and night and sun, used to weather. They seem a bit uncomfortable (from the little we understand of tree communiques). There's a ceiling. There are walls. And strange inorganic shapes like a sofa and chair, a table that looks familiar, the wood of it has a grain, but the shape, four right angles propped up on sticks. Looks all wrong. Like the world has shape-shifted and indoors is king. The world has shape-shifted. And indoors is king. The tree stays a while, wears a collection of funny hats, is wired to be lit. It stands and watches the life of humans moving from room to room, passing by, sniffing deeply. They love that pine scent. And then after a few days the hats and lights are removed and out you go. Please make yourself invisible now. We don't want you indoors. You no longer have roots so you can't live outdoors. You're tossed somewhere or chipped up. Your short life, considered by some to be a celebration, is really just a short-lived casualty of room decor.
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