It's how weak the human capacity for thought and memories is. Hit your head too hard, and you're a completely different person. If you're really unlucky, you may just go crazy. I know this having talked to too many people who've had TBIs. The former comment about going crazy is a reference to this NFL player who killed himself, leaving a note mentioning how much he felt he'd gone mad from all the head trauma, and begging the NFL to improve helmet design so the pain he'd gone through doesn't ever happen again to anyone else... It's an extremely sad story.

You forgot one...

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You know something weird? The first part of your post, about the practically infinite numbers of people out there, the limitless encounters we can all have with each other, the uniqueness we bring to this planet? That makes me so happy. Not sad, not even close. Almost euphoric. In the same way I can't handle thinking about the space beyond space, I really can't even imagine all these people and their fascinating lives, and thank god I can't. I'm glad there's always more going on, no matter how bad (or even good!) things are around me. The collective of humanity is the most fascinating thing ever; I hope you can sort of see my point of view. People are magical -- so celebrate the ones you know and will know, don't mourn the ones you'll never meet.

Can I share a semi-relevant poem I wrote once? Fuck it, I'm sharing a poem.

The brightly-lit faces of the passers-by are illuminated by the city lights

Their conversations so varied are lost to my hearing as they turn distant corners

So in my mind I tell their stories for them

Across the street a sad-faced foreign man selling gyros from behind a shadow

He won't make it in time to tuck his children into bed tonight -- he never does

Perhaps he won't go home at all, just wander the damp streets lost in dreams

On my left a bored policeman, existing only for tourists' pictures

I don't like his smile, his shifty, sweating smile -- he won't meet my eyes

He knows he isn't doing his job but can't admit it to himself

By my side a platinum lady, in heels and clingingly sequined, laughing too much

I don't know what she's laughing about -- what the world is laughing about

Maybe I'm not in on the secret because I haven't had enough to drink

I continue through the lavish square, such a grand dichotomy of lifestyles

It makes for interesting stories -- to me

I imagine what it means to the people I pass

To the street vendor, it means a childhood spent barefoot among the alleyways

To the officer, the constant possibility of action -- and failure

To the stumbling socialite, selfish in her youth, it means nothing

To me? stories, material, memories ... the children of my mind