the release of something pent up

all the suffering inside the people, the uncertainty over whether i would make it back to the embassy in time to pick up my emergency passport before it closed, and still have time to make up julia's package and send it successfully to russia before the post office closed, lying at night in a dismal delhi hostel room with a splitting headache, prostrate in viplove's flat with restless, sleepless fever while he drinks and carouses in the room next door with his mates, drinking excessively, too excess, his tales of drink driving, getting caught by cops - all you need to do is plead and protest your own poverty and give bribe and they'll only give ye a few days in prison, the hopeless corruption of indian society, the indian falseness, the fluidity of the meaning of their words, stripped of their meaning, their only purpose is to persuade - please sir, come inside my shop i have very good quality, the guy at the hostel denying me a two minute use of shower next morning because i had checked out the night before, even though i had paid for that night, the desire for money overriding any warmth or empathy with others, the guy at the internet place letting me use the internet and his phone for free and giving me a real genuine warm beautiful smile, the tragijoyous story of life, the glistening gemstones lying in the mud, the shiny stone floors of the airport, having to pass through the duty free to see premium products placed on pedestals - altars to the gods of consumption, pandering to the human desire for pomp and prestige and showy shiny shiny showy, being a hippy traveller and feeling very at odds with the bulk of the world, drinking from and old beat up water bottle, shouldering an old worn rucksack, holding a desire for simplicity and close contact with nature, my affinity with the pulse of life on the indian street, so many making do with whatever does the job, buying a tasty spicy samosa at the side of the street for five rupees, the staring looks of incomprehension from the indians who cannot see why i have chosen to come to their county to walk about barefoot disrespecting their unwritten laws on hygiene, the needless planet-screwing pollution of the air industry which nobody realises or cares about, the beauty of the clouds from the plane window, the beauty of nick drake's songs, the fever and headache and pain and stress of the last few days which had been building up but which i hadn't really been aware of, didn't want to be aware of, only wanted to accept whatever is, anichaa, anichaa, accept whatever is, accept whatever is: some of the possible reasons why i began to cry when i got on the flight and only stopped when the flight was a good way underway.