What ever happened to that sense of home? That familiarity? How do I even know what it is? I sure didn't learn it from my family. All I want to do is commit suicide. That would make me happy. That's the only being that feels familiar. 

I'm going to the monastery next week, but there's a sheen across my brain thinking it's not permanent, that it's a trial period that will end in deciding that it isn't for me and I'll leave. But then what? 

There's a reason I packed up my life and left San Francisco. My perspective of my life keeps bouncing around and looking at it from all these crazy unfamiliar views, and I just want it to stop and focus on where I am and why I'm here. It's either monastery or die. I'm not dying, so I'm going to the monastery with the full intention of staying. Easy. 

But I resist and I tell myself I don't want to follow someone else's spiritual path. I don't even want to walk along my own path with other people. I'm a loner. I feel I'm doing pretty well on my own, too. But what does that mean? Go back to secular life? Get a job? Why did I quit everything I had in San Francisco then? 

It's a feeling in the air. A season. The sound of someone's voice. Someone looking in my eyes and knowing. It's knowing someone. A stranger. It's a routine. It's a dream, a warm bed and a roof overhead. It's a smell, something burning in the distance at twilight. It's the first sip of coffee every morning that tastes like the best damn cup of coffee ever. It's the circumference of my brain. It's imagination. It's something not real, pretending it is. Breath. Lips. Intimacy. I don't want to make love to you, I don't want to enter you. I want to melt inside you, I want to inhabit your skin. I want to be continued.