My life has come and gone, although I try to tell myself it’s here and now. I begin to realize things have happened to which my consent is meaningless. I’m sad to see I haven’t earned security or love. I’m discontented to think the life I’ve made’s unnatural, artificial. I’m haunted to hope for someone beyond my control to take notice and make the life with me that I feel for in my heart. I’m sad to suspect she’s only an idea, a figment of a wish. I’m afraid to think I’ve made a life that’s as artificial as a building that can’t hold a woman who can’t hold a life that can’t hold a love. I’m sorry to worry that I’m a mistake of nature, and must somehow prove I’m not worthless, but can do great things, given a chance, and I’ll find out, so help me.
October 1970