the basic pH of concrete

i seem to be living in a concrete flat place without weather or life. i wish for the space and clouds and changeable sand, and lizards and spiders and flowering cacti of the desert instead, the dry heat and cold extremes killing me quickly. i can't hope for moss and ferns and streams and owls and wolves, that hurts too much to think about.

occasionally someone will try to rescue me. but the thing is, it's the whole structure, of me, of the world, of my life till now. so, i don't think i'm rescue-able, in that way. although i appreciate the gestures. especially when they spend time trying to remind me what it's like to be human. i know some lovely people, with lovely people that need them, that they don't find too much to stay with.  

i am too independent, with anxiety that makes me try to control by pushing away variables and depression that makes me boring.
but i also am so needy- no one wants to be around that for long.
my suffering is insufferable. 

so lately the edges of this concrete plain have called me. i look over into the black. 

people would be upset if i died. and angry if i didn't do anything to hold myself back. if i cut the ropes i've woven and tied around myself. if i just let go.
so it seems i'm supposed to just. abide. alone. not dying. it feels like such a waste of a life. 

i cannot figure out how to find reasons to live by myself. travel used to connect me to others, to a wider view. to joy sometimes.
i always knew i could end up like my mother, but without the lies that tethered her to a hurtful family and a homicidal religion, which also gave her a surface purpose she clung to. so i pushed that possibility aside, hoped for the best.
now things seem pointless. why do things to my living space that may burn down in the next fire. why make plans that i may never get to do. why work on projects, no one will see them, no one will care if my photos or journals burn. why seek out hikes that may not have a bathroom nearby or may have people who don't respect distance/mask wearing. why write people who don't write back (or who do, sometimes), especially when i have no joyful things to say to maybe make them smile. i'm just. a parking garage, really, a place to leave your things while you do something, then come back to get your things and leave again. 

and although i know i don't know what will come next, and i am wrong often, and change is the nature of life, still, i don't know how much more i can take of this. i know others have it so much worse. i try to help, i try to be heard, but it seems i'm not even saving a starfish or two with these desperate attempts. i don't know how much longer i can keep trying. the waste i am participating in is deafening and blinding and crushing.