where did all the indirect objects come from?

Sometimes, my silence is a scream. The blue light filters through the air; I stare while others think I laugh.
I once fingered gingham, believing I would return to where air not arrogance is breathed and passive voice is not a term. what exactly is the difference between I had thought and I thought? Is the past so necessary that we must fragment that as well?
What do I do here? How do I learn, all over again, to live? Is it melodrama when you really feel you cannot breath; when you really do not understand most people around you? Or is that merely your own reality and you have to find some way to make it merge with others? Has mine ever merged with others?
There are moments when I'm pretty sure it has : in the back of a car, driving around Fremont Lake. With fingers intertwined, discussing the life of balloons. Waking with a smile, forgetting, momentarily, that we live in a place with curtains and wood that's slowly rotting.