I'm not feeling the probability that I'll give notice on my apartment on Friday. I'm not sure what that means, or if it means anything, or if it needs to mean anything, but it probably does. It probably means something but nothing will come of it. Story of my life.

So I tiptoe into March.

Even that is good. Even that is alright. Practice period is half over, and nothing bothers me much these days. Thoughts are light and elusive. With the exception, perhaps, of sometimes waking up first thing in the morning and feeling how warm and comfortable my sheets are.

That, my friends, to me is a disturbing thought. It's not as simple as calling it an attachment and attachment=bad. It's more sublime than that. Maybe it's the desire for things to stop and stay that way that's disturbing. Maybe it's the mundane thought of not wanting to die in order to experience these wonderful passing moments.

Suicide doesn't bother me these days either. No anxiety or angst associated with it. Often when suicide seeps up, it's like arriving at a house, and walking into the house, I can go into the room on the left and be anxious and angsty about what's going to happen to my stuff, or the inconvenience it will cause people like my landlord. Or I can go into the room on the right and be anxious and angsty about my family and project on what their reactions might be. Or I can go up the stairs and into a room and be anxious and angsty about the metaphysical implications and possibilities regarding the afterlife and reincarnation, the stuff I have no idea about.

And through it all, it's still a house. The house is still shelter, it's still home, it's where I go at the end of the day and drink . . . tea.

These days, suicide is just suicide.