One week left. I think it's high time for me to start freaking out. No, not freaking out. But feel the same way as when, well, you know. Except in a week, I'll just be getting on a plane. It's so much easier to get on a plane than, well, you know. 

And it's supposed to feel the same, even if it's not the same. Because they're supposed to be the same. And if they're the same, then it's what I want. I'm done. I'm checking out. Right? Right. I'm giving up this life, doing these things, being pulled through this life of habits and illusions. 

There's nothing wrong with just living life, enjoying it for whatever it brings, and dealing with the hardships as they inevitably come. But it's not for me. What a waste it would feel like. 

Entering the monastery is suicide, and it's what I want. I'm not telling myself that just to convince myself. There are differences. Living is one thing, existing is another, and I've always had a harder time with existing than living. I can give up this life by committing suicide or by going to the monastery, but at the monastery I still have to deal with existence. And these theoretical "people", lord knows who they are, can be spared the outrage, pity, and condemnation they'd spit at my killing myself. Whatever. 

I am feeling it. And walking through the airport, getting on the plane, and getting to the monastery will be the same journey and will have the same mental imprint as locking my apartment, taking the 9 San Bruno, transfer to the 23 Monterey, and walking to the beach with the bottle of whiskey and sleeping pills and boogie board. 

I swear once I'm doing it, it won't sound or seem so dreary and morbid. It's just the torment we put ourselves through to find a little peace.