A muddy existence

A good representation of how life always felt for me is like being in a huge country sized mud pod, everybody stuck or sinking in it variably, and I happen to be standing on a tiny piece of the land in the middle. I could never go on with life watching them, I would reach out, with my hands and body, and it won't do. I would then always end up stepping in inside with them trying to pull them, whomever I happen to be loving then, and one way or another, I always find myself totally dragged inside to end up like everyone is them, sinking or stuck. Somehow I seem to be able to get myself back up on that tiny piece of the land in the middle. I repeat the pattern, every new comer who shows all signs to needing help. I reach out, mind, heart, body, soul, but then prefer bringing me down with them instead of stepping up. All they know is the mud, the mud is their life. They have all sorts of ways and types of enjoyment there that somehow their very psyche has shifted, and their reality is mud has become the life. It used to be fun at times, when I learned their ways and adjusted, but eventually the feel and taste and smell and heaviness and restrictions of the mud always gets to me and I find myself opting out. They seem to have decided to land in the mud and forgetting home, and I seem to have decided to land on the land and keep remembering home. On my dry little piece of land I now stand alone, it is not my job to reach to the mud, but to stand tall for all the see me and reach out to the land once they decide it is what they want, if they ever do. Otherwise, it is a solitary life for me from here onwards, for I had already seen it all, and I truly rather wait on the land instead of inside the mud until we go home, and we sure are going soon.