February 4, 2001: Recognition of my night sky

My heart is weak—a sickness of sorts brought out by a lack of self-confidence. There’s no cure! My thoughts are off balance and horribly out of tune. The attempt is to locate the childhood ambition—but it just sits there and smiles at me before darting away to a new location of not being touched. I planted those trees because I’m the one that’s sick not the forest. I see it as being greed—to please others other than myself. I’d rather give something away then keep it! Not a chief…there are no acts of bravery nor have I collected enough coup. Who but I? Must I be? Am I the one staring back at me? Be it I—it can’t be any other! Cracked is the mirror and I’m left standing there smiling. People aren’t nice to me unless they have to be—where is the reality?