I awoke feeling rather disgusted with myself.  Still gripped in the fist of the glooms that have plagued me these last few days, but now at least able to view the thing more objectively, and wishing to be free of it, rather than wanting only to wallow.

So, how to avoid this association between spring and feelings of loss becoming a proper neurosis to add to my collection?  How better than to dive in headfirst, and go for a walk; taking the widely-held view that exercise is supposed to be a good remedy for depression.
So, section thirteen of the Capital Ring (I'd walked section twelve a few weeks previously), between Stoke Newington and Hackney Wick.

A glorious day, full of all the things I was afraid of, all the smells and sounds, warm spring sunshine, solitude in the open air.

I won't deny, there were difficult moments. Several times I found myself longing to be able to share the experience of this beautiful day, with some nebulous significant other, but every time that familiar feeling of "if only" welled up, the regular tramp of my feet on the hard towpath seemed to knock it away.

Overshot the end of the section in the end, and carried on to Old Ford Lock, then down the Greenway (actually part of section fourteen), and then into Stratford for the train home.

Good.  Good.

It smells of spring outside.  The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  That used to be one of my favourite smells, and this, my favourite time of year.  It evokes every hope I ever had for myself when I was younger, every happier, carefree day, every smile.

The smell of new beginnings, of youth, of hope.  The smell of everything I seem to have lost.

I have cultivated a dead-end. A beautiful, wonderful, marvellous dead-end, but a dead-end nonetheless.

I left the main path a long time ago. It runs parallel to this, closely enough that I can glimpse it through the trees, but crossing to it would be at such a great cost that I doubt I'll ever attempt it.  Yet there it lies, and here I stand, thwarted. In glory, but thwarted.
I knew it as I chose this route. Knew it, yet drove on, regardless.

Stay, burning in the light I can never share?
Forsake the light, go back, and rejoin the path?
Plunge into the undergrowth?
Hope?

Physical interactions with strangers. The pseudo-Brownian motion of people moving about in groups.

Those of us who are people-watchers, will, of course, be familiar with the many and various different ways that people move around. Those with a bit of acting knowledge may well have spotted many, if not all, of the Laban Efforts among the milling populace - few of us can have shopped in a modern supermarket, for instance, without having encountered a "float" (light, sustained, indirect) or a "wring" (heavy, sustained, indirect), blocking an aisle or two with their trolley, while they ponder the wonders arrayed before them on the shelves.

However, it's when people approach each other closely enough to interact, that things become a little odd. 
For instance, let us suppose that:

Person A bumps into person B (either a direct barge, as with, say a "punch" or "press" in pursuit of their chosen path, or through un-coordinated blundering, as with a "float" or "wring").

There seem, these days, to be two possible reactions:

1) Person A doesn't react at all, but continues, quite unaware of any social infringement.  Most of us, I think, would describe this as simply, "rudeness".

2) Person A emits an almost automatic "sorry", usually in apparent surprise that there should be any other people in the space at all, let alone nearby.

What concerns me, is that, for a whole generation now, reaction (2) is starting to be seen as "politeness".  Whereas once, that term might have been applied to such acts as, "letting other people pass" (and thanking those that do so), or indeed, "avoiding bumping into people in the first place."
An apology is, I daresay, better than nothing, but we do seem to be becoming a society of apologisers. I remember hearing Peter Ustinov speak about visiting an airport, and how he found himself walking across a vast, empty concourse, which contained only one other soul, who, amid the acres of emptiness, proceeded to bump straight into him, with a surprised, "oh I'm sorry."

Once, people were brought up to look where they were going. Once, people were encouraged to consider their words and deeds before taking any action.

Now, it seems, our peripheral vision, both actual and metaphorical, has become so limited, so self-focussed, that consideration for others has become encapsulated in a single word, no longer meant, no longer capable of possessing any meaning.

I've meandered around the point here rather, I'm afraid, being the "float" that I all too often am. If this has caused annoyance, then er... sorry.