the weight and the heat

I appreciate sound bite quality of the my narrative most of the time. During others, I wonder if it makes me sound pompous and allows me to be taken less seriously.
I'm on to something with this "crazy" label. It has a keen way of fitting when not much else does. I can literally feel the connotation of the word changing in my head as I use it more and more often to describe myself and others.
Nuance is a lost art, with the exemption of its use in the world of "style". There is a difference though, between its subtle discernment and its conscious manipulation. It annoys me that so many people look stupidly at it, as if it wasn't there.
I wonder how many people, like me, are out there. There appears to me to be a dreamy multitude moving from lover and lover effortlessly. To them its a question of who, rather than if. I daydream about that kind of life, but I never seemed to have found it in my years of experience in the world of love. How many people look at the world immediate to them and see nothing with startling or even commonplace promise? Its awkward and unnatural to hope. Quiet resignation or surpressed neurosis are the order of the day. I miss the weight and the heat of love. The nuance of fucking in a tender way on days and nights where your soul needs affirmed in its belief that there is noise outside the chambers. Its tangible, its real in those sweaty brief moments. And then the color returns along with the many uses of life. Its not just that one thing anymore, it becomes evil, pathetic, and grand all at once. And the wave breaks and descends the path to that exscruiatingly slow halt and retreat.
I didn't think a day or a job would mean so much to me yesterday. I'm glad I didn't have it all planned out before.