in the thick of it

sometimes life just gets so thick in my perception, i feel like in a strange jungle, not mine, and bushes everywhere.
nothing helps then, even not you, even not me.
music, long forgotten tunes shake my square mind up, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
i remember, there was a dad and there was a song and L.Cohen and Macy Gray and a bare room in a culturally rife city in Switzerland. It was Graffiti then and excitement, some sort of, and a new sense of who to be.
Things long gone now. There is a confusion going on, a big one, everyone knows it, it's as if they are talking behind my back, thinking I'm the only one oblivous to the facts, whispering, afraid I would run into them, swirl around to stare into their faces. it's not as if I'd scream out loud 'gotcha buddy!' 'caught in the act!' 'ha!' or even 'boo!'. No, no, I wouldn't do that.
Even he knows, it is seeping through his words and we both lie and pretend, and we want it so desperately. Gosh, children we are, playing in the sand. Until the, the dark comes. Sun gone, Momma is calling but we just don't want to see or hear or abide to the law of gravity. Love was supposed to undo it. Man. It was. It really is.

Now it's confusion, and it seems an easy thing to do to just turn back and look into my own face. It's not as if I wanted to, you know. Write a letter to God and have him undo all these horrible things that can't live up to the horribleness of life elsewhere.

There was a time. ...
And you don't know about it.
It was mine.
Completely. Only. It was the oligarchy of deep emotions.
It was, what was close to my heart, closer than anything now.

I am sorry if I worry any of you. If I come across as akward and adolescent. Or even lost, for heaven's sake.
I just wish you could leave me the fuck alone and not observe every fucking move I make. Comment.
Just comment on my writing and take it for what it is. Writing. Digestion. Fiction. Reality through layers of glass.