Brainspill, Leaving, Mad World

I was walking through the tunnel from Central railway station to Broadway to the passport place thinking about the night before with friends and how much these people mean to me and it was weird... I'm thinking about all this gorgeous stuff and how lucky I am and how every now and then I'll look at these friends - Ann or Nadia or Christine - when they're talking to someone else or laughing at something that doesn't have anything to do with me and I just feel great affection, real love. And I'm thinking about this as broken people walk by hunched into their grubby clothes, and strangely there are bruised rose petals lying on the grimy tiles and I wonder how they got there, what is their story? And there's a busker singing Gary Jules' Mad World, and my head's drowning in beauty with all this human wreckage around me and this busker singing this sad song. It's not a great voice but it's in tune, and the guitar is in tune and there's a kind of perfection there, and it all just about overwhelms me. I want to cry. I really want to let myself go and howl it out. I want to be with everyone. I want to be alone. I want to fix the broken ones and make them as lucky as I am. And I look around and wonder if I let myself go, if I gave into it in this bustling tunnel would anyone even notice? I almost lose it but don't quite, and maybe all of them are doing the same thing, feeling exactly the same way I am feeling. Who knows? Who knows what the hell is going on. Mad World.

Leaving in a few short days. It's a fucked up kind of pain, the pain of leaving, because it is genuine sadness but there's beauty in it; I'm lucky to have people I love in my life who love me back, and I hate that I am leaving them. What must it have been like back in the days of ships sailing to unknown lands? When goodbyes could well have meant proper never-to-be-heard-from-again goodbyes?