Look around my home.
In confused walls - I am here.
But I am not home.

Confusion is a canvas splayed with colors until a dark muddy hue appears. It's a sight that doesn't convey happiness or grief, contentment or anger, music or silence. It can't be understood, because then it wouldn't be confusion. But, it exists. We don't frame it, or play it through our speakers. We don't read it or eat it. We try not to think about it. But, it's in the air and we breathe it. It underlines the words we speak and think. It is a catalyst for our emotions, borrowed and returned in the flux of the universe. At certain points, the air is so saturated with it we begin to feel suffocated, our emotions fueled by its presence causing reactions to occur opening up more doors for it to enter. Anger, anxiety, sadness. Violence, lies, tears. We no longer see what is in front of us, we no longer feel what is at our finger tips or taste what is upon our tongues. We can't smell the flowers at our feet. Everything is out of focus. What is important is meaningless, and what has meaning is cast aside. We identify with confusion. We are confusion.